Blind Mary
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Sins of the father come back to haunt Jules’ old friend and new lover.
1. Guardian Angels

I started writing this story at the beginning of the summer, and it has suffered several hiatuses, so I apologize for any continuity errors. I'm trying to press them all out. 

The story is mostly based on the song 'Mary's Waltz' by Over the Rhine. It also has some striking similarities to the book 'Paul and Virginia' by Bernardin De St. Pierre, which was serendipitous, not planed. I should probably also add that this is NOT a Mary Jane story, even though my main character is called Mary. 

Also, obviously, the characters are not mine, I'm making no money out of this, yadda yadda yadda . . .

Enjoy, and review.

Chapter 1: Guardian Angels

"And did you have a pleasant trip Mademoiselle?" the conductor asked kindly as he put a large, warm hand on Mary's shoulder. 

"Yes, thank you," she said. "I don't suppose you could find an honest young man to fetch me a cab?"

"Of course Mademoiselle," The conductor said. "I know many trustworthy boys here at the station." He led her approximately ten yards through the bustle of the station. Mary had never been in a large train station, indeed, the only other train station she had ever been to was the small one in Brittany where she had boarded the train to Paris mere hours ago. That station had been nice, quite, open to the air. The only person there was Monsieur Malay, who's wife was well known for growing the best radishes in the region. Paris was totally different, people were moving everywhere, and talking so loud that they almost drowned out the noise of the trains themselves. But she could still feel them, rumbling the floor beneath her. 

"Jean-Dominique," the conductor said, presumably to a young boy. "Find this woman a cab."

"Yes Monsieur," the boy said. He reached out and grabbed the handle of her bag.

"No," Mary said, very quickly pulling the bag towards her. "Please, just lead me out of here, and find me a cab."

The boy looked at her skeptically, but did as he was told. 

"Where to?" The cabby asked as the boy helped her into the carriage.

"Do you know of the young playwright, Jules Verne?"

The cabby laughed. "Do I look like the kind of man who would know a playwright?"

Mary smiled at the irony. "I'll have to take your word for it. I'm sure the theater district will be fine."

* * *

"Hey Jules!" Felix said loudly across Thomas's café. "What are you doing here?"

Jules smiled as he approached his friends, "I was planing to get a drink, are there any objections?"

"As you know my friend," Felix said, leaning forward so that Bridgette on his lap had to lean backward. "I am always delighted to share a drink with you. However, I was thinking you might want to share it with the pretty young woman wandering around the theater district inquiring after the playwright Jules Verne."

"What?"

"You heard him Jules," Bridgette said, smiling. "I saw her, very pretty."

"You know, if you hurry, you might still catch her," Felix encouraged.

The young writer looked at his friends, bewildered. A beautiful young woman, asking after him. He was cautious, first of all, the only woman who had ever actively pursued him had turned out to be evil. That aside, he was afraid that it was a joke. Felix was certainly not above that type of thing, however, Bridgette usually was - she was the reason of the relationship, he was the passion. And the thirdly he was excited. A mystery woman combing the theater district for a young playwright she didn't know, his imagination took the idea and ran with it, extrapolating proposition after proposition about her identity and intent. She was wealthy and had been enchanted with one of his plays and wished to become his patron. She was a brilliant young playwright herself, looking for a break and a mentor. She was an actress, unknown but talented, who didn't know where to go, so she tried to seek out the playwright who had a reputation for kindness. She was a fan, a lovely aristocrat, who had been truly inspired by his words. She was everything and everyone Jules had ever fantasized about. He tried to think of a rational, or at least reality-based, reason for this young woman to blindly inquire after him, none came to mind.

"But who is she?" Jules asked bewildered.

"Go and find out," Bridgette urged. 

Jules looked at his friends at the table, took a deep breath and made a decision. "I'll be right back."

As he walked out of the café he heard Felix call after him, "Good luck Jules! God speed!"

* * * 

Paris has one of the most expansive and confusing theater districts in the world, at least that's what Mary thought. She had never left Brittony and had never been in a town with a theater, never the less a whole district of them. She found people uncommonly rude and the directions she was given were often more harmful than helpful. To make matters worse, The carriages frightened her too. There were so many of them that she feared she would not be able to tell if one was approaching and be run over. However, finding Jules Verne was by far the most important thing in the world at the moment, far more important than her life. If she didn't find him, her life wouldn't be worth anything anyway. Someone, hopefully someone trustworthy, had told her that Verne had opened a play in a small theater across the street: La Stage Peditte. However, before Mary could ask for help crossing he disappeared into the crowed, which left her with the daunting task of crossing the bustling city street alone.

She waited for the right time, when she was sure, or at least mostly sure, she knew where every carriage was, and how fast it was going and that she would be able to get across the street without being trampled. "Oh, Raphael, guide my steps," the girl whispered to her Guardian Angel before stepping into the road. She made it three whole paces before a strong hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly back.

"Are you insane?!" the very concerned voice of a young man asked harshly. He was standing behind her and breathing heavily; he had either had to run to save her, or was extremely upset by her near death. From the sound of his voice, she guessed both. "That carriage nearly ran you over!"

"Jules?" Mary asked excitedly, turning around so he could see her face. "Jules Verne?"

"Yes," he responded, as much an answer as a question.

Mary breathed a sigh of relief, "Oh, Jules, please remember me. I came all this way. I would have sent word but I didn't know your address. And that's why I'm here, I'm trying to find someone who knows you - but no one knows where you live." She paused, he hadn't said anything, he might not remember at all. Or he might be a totally different Jules Verne, neither name was so uncommon that it was an impossibility. "Please remember me," she asked again.

There was a moment as he looked at her; her face, cream colored with delicate features and a horrible blueish purple bruise on her right temple; her body small and perfectly proportioned; her clothes, a dark calico dress and a black shawl with brightly colored flowers; her hair thick and black and bound in a braid that fell to the small of her back. None of it was familiar. Then his eyes wandered to hers and everything made sense. They were large and brown and soft, they didn't focus and they didn't shift, and they didn't look up at him. In fact, they didn't see anything at all. They were opaque windows, but windows none the less, and through them Jules could see exactly who she was.

"Mary," he said, his voice filling with wonder, his hand finding his way onto her face. "You're the one looking for me?" In all his excitement he had never dreamed that this would be the beautiful young woman inquiring after him. That was mostly due to the fact that, while he thought of her now and then, he never thought of her as beautiful or a woman, only as young. And the idea of her in Paris was ludicrous - she was everything Paris was not; quite, soft, delicate, holy, simple, and innocent.

Her left hand had found his face as well and as her fingers ran over his handsome features and soft skin she felt wonderfully assured. "Oh, Raphael didn't guide me wrong."

"Mary, what are you doing here? And why are you looking for me?"

"Do you know someplace safe?"

Jules looked around them, nothing stuck him as dangerous. "There is a café across the street. I'm sure with my help you could get across without being run over by a carriage."

Her hand dropped from his face and returned to the carpet bag she had been carrying since Brittiany. "Jules," she said very softly, "I'm very afraid, please, do you know anyplace safe?"

The young man had not taken his hand from her face, it still rested on her cheek. He was surprised to find that it was damp, she was crying. "Mary," he said softly. "I don't understand. You came all the way . . ."

"Please Jules, someplace alone, and safe."

"Alright," he said, wiping her tears away gently. "Alright. My lodgings aren't far. You'll be safe there."

She took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. "Thank you Jules, I . . . I know I'm asking a lot for just showing up like this and all, but, ah . . ." she started to cry again. It was not a dainty, ladylike cry, the kind of thing which could be taken care of with a polite lace handkerchief, her tears were a mixture of fear and relief and had been held in too long. Jules took a protective step forward and pulled her delicate body closer so she could sob someplace safe.

* * * 

Jules was supposed to show up at the Aurora, which was parked on the lawns of the British Embassy in Paris, for dinner at eight. Phileas Fogg, accompanied by his cousin Rebecca and faithful manservant Passepartout, had landed earlier that wet December day and sent a message that their business was in no way dire and his company would be very appreciated at the nightly meal. He had sent back an excited message accepting the invitation, but then, without word, he didn't come.

"I hope he's alright," Rebecca said at 9:35. They had finally decided to eat without their guest, however, no one was hungry. Phileas ate his meal with determination, if not appetite; Rebecca played with her roll and stared out the window; Passepartout glanced at the door every few seconds and wished that Miss Rebecca would finish her soup so he could go into the kitchen and prepare the second course, for no other reason than it would give him something to do with his hands.

"He probably just forgot," Phileas said as nonchalantly as possible.

"Jules is a very responsible young man."

"But he is a young man, Rebecca, And Paris is full of alluring cafés which are filled with alluring women."

"We're talking about Jules Verne, Phileas, not you."

Her cousin laughed dryly, moved to take another bite of his soup, but found he didn't have the stomach for it. He put the spoon back in the bowl and pushed it away from him.

"The next course master?" Passepartout asked eagerly.

Phileas looked up at his cousin, who hadn't eaten more than a few crumbs in the last fifteen minutes, and then turned to the manservant. "I think not Passepartout, why don't you bring us some tea; after that help yourself to your supper."

"Very good master," he said, before grabbing the soup bowls and withdrawing into the Aurora's small kitchen.

"The messenger came back with a reply," Rebecca said, "He was home at noon, we know that."

"Someone claiming to be Jules Verne was at his garret at noon, whether it was him or not is rather the issue."

"Of course it was him, Phileas, an imposter would make up some reason not to come, say he had a prior engagement or was ill or something."

"Not necessarily, he knew another invitation would come soon enough, he might have accepted the first one and . . ."

"And what Phileas, make us suspicious days before necessary. No, whatever happened, happened after noon." 

"Do you think I should go pay him a visit?"

"It could be dangerous."

"I doubt it. It doesn't take much to overpower Verne."

"Give him a little credit," Rebecca scolded. "Jules is not as weak as you make him out to be."

"Perhaps not, but he has managed to disappear in the matter of nine hours." 

Rebecca sighed, "Right, I'll go with you."

They stood up simultaneously and Phileas was helping his cousin with her coat when Passepartout entered the room with the tea.

"Master," the servant said unsurely, "Are you going?"

"Yes, Passepartout, I'm afraid we are no more interested in tea then we were in dinner."

"But where are you going?"

"To pay a visit to Jules," Rebecca said. She was looking in her purse to make sure everything was there; throwing knives, climbing rope, bottle of acid, and revolver. Satisfied she walked over to the door and waited for Phileas to open it for her. 

Passepartout's brow was knit with confusion. "But why when he is paying a visit to you?"

Fogg sighed with frustration at his servant's apparent lack of common sense, "Because he didn't show up."

"Yes, he did."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Phileas asked with a tone akin to disgust.

Almost as an answer to the question there was a loud knock at the door and Jules' harried voice came from the other side. "Fogg? Passepartout? Rebecca?"

"Excusing me," the Frenchman said as he walked past Rebecca and unlocked the door. As soon as it was open a crack, Verne's hand was pushing it further, and as soon as he, and some strange woman, had entered the Aurora, he closed the door behind them and made sure it was locked.

"Fogg, I have a great favor to ask of you," the young man gasped turning to his friend, who's face was painted with bewilderment and more than a little annoyance.

"Well that's mighty presumptuous," Fogg responded incredulously.

Jules was to frightened to realize he should apologize, he continued begging with his voice and his eyes. "Please, lift off. Float around the city, go back to England, it doesn't matter, just get off the ground."

"Is there anything fundamentally wrong with the ground in Paris?" Fogg asked flippantly.

Jules looked at his friend, a man he trusted with his life, and more importantly, with Mary's. The young artist's eyes held everything he had felt over the past couple of hours in layers, surprise, joy, compassion and on the very top level, fear. "We were followed. She's probably been followed since Brittany, Ple . . . please Fogg."

The Englishman tried to rectify his compassion with his pride and found them more or less incompatible. Thankfully, Rebecca spared him the decision.

"Passepartout, lift off."

"Yes Miss Rebecca," the manservant said with relish.

Verne turned to the mysterious girl and put his hand on her face in a way that suggested extreme intimacy to those looking on. "It's alright," he said gently. "You're safe here."

  
  


To Be continued . . .


	2. Whispered in Warning

Chapter 2: Whispered in Warning

"It was two days ago," Mary said softly. She was sitting on the couch with Jules next to her. She was playing with his hand, feeling his fingers individually, bending them and straightening them and tracing the lines on his palms. Jules let her, without protest or even embarrassment. His entire focus was on the young woman. Rebecca was intrigued by this to say the least. She watched the way the two hands interacted, his were bigger than hers, stronger, but he let her have her way. It was like a very subtle poetry, magnificent in its simplicity, uncanny in its beauty, and yet she was the only one who noticed it. Phileas, while listening intently, was almost two rooms away steering the Aurora to a safe height and Passepartout was making tea. 

"Men came into our house, my father must have let them in. I was in the orchard, we, we have ah, a pear orchard. A man with a very large hands, the middle finger from his left hand it was short," she held Jules's middle finger very tightly as if she was absorbing it's wholeness. He let her, keeping his compassion filled eyes on her face. "Someone must have cut it. He put his hand on my mouth and dragged me into our house. My father told someone to leave me out of it, that I didn't matter. A man with a weak voice and an Italian accent demanded the papers. My father said he wouldn't tell them. The man demanded again, and I felt something small and round and cold pressing against my head."

"The barrel of a gun," Rebecca supplied.

Mary nodded, by this time in the narrative her complection was like that of a ghost. She had stopped playing with Jules hand, instead he wrapped it around hers in an effort to stop them from trembling. With his other hand he wiped away the large tears that were flowing out of her sightless eyes.

"My father blatantly refused," Mary continued bravely. "His voice was cool and hard, it was the same sort of voice he used with the farm hands when he found them drunk, or with me when I upset him. He wasn't afraid, just angry. Then the man told him that they would kill him if he didn't produced the papers," her voice started to trail off. "And, ah, that's all I remember."

"All you remember?" Rebecca demanded, she had been brought to the pinnacle of suspense and was extremely let down.

"I think she was pistol whipped," Jules said softly, turning to Rebecca for the fist time that night. 

Rebecca glanced at the ugly bruise on the lovely girl's forehead, "It seems likely. Mary what happened when you woke up?"

As traumatic as the beginning of her tale, Rebecca could see that what came next was even worse for the young girl. She was a hair away from collapsing again, the only thing keeping her from it was Jules sitting next to her, holding her hand, touching her face, giving her strength. "I woke up," she said, her voice hardly a whisper. "And the house was quiet. I tried to stand but I couldn't, my head felt so heavy, I felt sick. I managed to cr . . . crawl to my father. I don't think I would have known him but . . . but he has a scar on his wrist, I knew it was him."

"Why not simply be feeling his face?" Passepartout asked. No one had noticed him and his tea cart sneak into the room, but he had apparently been there long enough to hear a good deal of the conversation. 

"It wasn't there anymore," Jules said softly, so Mary wouldn't have to.

"But how . . ." the manservant started.

"Passepartout," Rebecca said sharply. "Perhaps our guest would appreciate her tea now."

The valet looked at her for a moment and then suddenly realized what he had asked. "Oh!" he gasped, "Oh, I am so sorry Miss Sykes, my most humbling apothecaries."

Mary, much to everyone's amazement, smiled. "What?"

Jules smiled at her, even though she couldn't see it. "He apologizes . . . for asking the question."

"Oh," Mary half giggled. She started playing with Jules hand again as Passepartout quickly served the tea and retreated to front of the ship.

"Mary," Rebecca said as soon as he was done. She was trying to sound compassionate despite her analytical interest, but she couldn't quite keep the curiosity out of the edges of her voice. "What happened next?"

"After that I'm afraid I acted rashly," The girls said softly. "I should have called the neighbor, or fetched the constable, but I wasn't thinking. I ran through the house and collected every paper from every drawer or hiding place I could think of. It was a mess, the men, they must have searched the house, papers were everywhere. I collected them all. Whatever the men were looking for, they must have found it . . . I'm sure I did all this for naught, I was searching aimlessly for something I couldn't recognize, they must have found them."

"Where are the papers?" Phileas asked as he stepped up behind his cousin. He had given the controls to Passepartout who happily retreated hoping to find a way to extract his foot from his mouth.

"I brought them with me," she said. "They are in my bag."

"Do you mind if I look though them?" Fogg asked.

She hesitated a second, "If you like," she said warily. "Jules looked through them already."

"I didn't find anything, Fogg," the writer interjected, "Maybe you will."

The Englishman took the bag and retreated to his desk while Rebecca continued her quasi-compassionate interrogation.

"Why did you come to Paris?"

"I was looking for Jules."

The Englishwoman's brow knit with confusion, "Really? And how did you two know each other?"

"We were friends as children," Jules explained. "My grandparents farm neighbored her family's orchard."

Jules could see the next question form on the English woman's lips, Jules, why have we never heard about her before? The last thing he wanted to do at this point was admit that he hadn't thought to mention her, admit that he had dismissed her memory as a childhood crush, a simple first love. 

"We couldn't really stay in touch," Jules explained. "I wrote a couple of letters but . . ."

"I never got them," Mary interjected. "I'm so sorry Jules, I, I didn't know . . ." she was almost in tears.

"Shhh," Jules said, petting her face. "It's not your fault, it's all right." 

As soon as Mary had moderate control over herself Rebecca pressed forward with her interview. "So, if you two lost contact with each other, how did you find him."

"One of the women at our parish went to Paris," Mary explained, "she told me she had seen one of Jules Verne's plays advertised."

"So you were able to get in contacted him?"

"Ah," she said, blushing slightly, "No, I bought a ticket to Paris." 

"You didn't know where he lived, even if he was in Paris?"

"I wasn't thinking," the girl admitted softly. 

Much to Rebecca's surprise Jules seemed very upset by this fairly obvious comment. "It's a good thing you came," he assured Mary. "You're safe here."

Rebecca, who was absolutely dumbfounded by the young woman's act of blind faith contrary to all reason, tried to think of some way to respond to this situation. She was saved by her cousin, who suddenly and unexpectedly called out, "I say, Rebecca, what do you make of this?"

Glad for the interruption she quickly got up and was soon hovering over Phileas at his desk. He was looking at a small leather book filled with very small writing. "What is it?"

"It seems to be English," Fogg said.

"Written in Cyrillic?"

"Well, I can tell you it's not Russian, Polish, Greek, Czech, Turkish, Slovak or any other eastern language. Look at the placement of the vowels."

"They are rather more common then they should be, aren't they."

"Um," he agreed. "If you read it phonically it makes some sort of sense."

Rebecca, who knew several Cyrillic languages fluently, stumbled over the awkward spellings, and finally was able to make out what it said. Still, she took a moment to read it again, and confirm what she thought it said, but was sure it couldn't have. "Sir . . . Boniface Fogg?" she glanced at her cousin to confirm her interpretation of the writing. 

"Continue," he said softly.

"Requested the documents from the English embassy in Austria, he believes the ambassador's assistant is an Austrian spy. Of course Boniface is right, he is always right about such things, but if he knew that I planted the self same assistant for the Austrian government he would no doubt kill me," she smiled. "Or at least try."

"You know what this is?"

"Of course," She said simply. "Exactly what we were looking for."

"And undoubtably what the Italian was looking for as well."

"But he didn't find it, why not?"

"He was looking for papers, Rebecca. So were you. Would you have thought of looking in this little book?"

The spy bit her lip, somewhat disappointed in herself. "No, I wouldn't."

Phileas glanced at her and, even though he didn't say it, she could hear him think I would have looked everywhere. What he did say was that it was time to confront the young blind girl.

"Miss Sykes," he said crisply. She turned her head towards the sound of his voice and Phileas suddenly got the feeling that he had interrupted something he shouldn't have, something intimate. The young girl looked a thousand times better than she had only moments ago when Rebecca was interrogating her. There was color in her cheeks and a hint of a smile in her eyes. It struck Phileas as odd that her eyes would be so expressive when they couldn't actually see anything. "I'm sorry to intrude," he said softly and earnestly. "But I have something I'm dying to know."

"What is that?" Verne asked.

"Am I correct in thinking that your name is spelled with a Y apposed to an IE?"

"Ah, yes," she said uncertainly.

"Why do you want to know that?" Jules asked, bewildered.

"If you don't mind my saying, you have a very English name for a french woman."

"I'm only part french," Mary explained. "My father was a sailor, he was from England."

"Your father who was murdered?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"And what exactly happened to your mother?"

"She died years ago of yellow fever."

"Oh," Phileas said compassionately, "I'm so sorry."

"Fogg, what does this have to do with anything?"

"Miss Sykes, may I ask you another question?"

"Of course," Mary said, pulling Jules hand a little closer.

"Dose the name Jupiter mean anything to you?"

Mary's body suddenly tensed and she went pale again. "Why did you ask that?" she demanded, almost accusingly. 

Phileas's face was suddenly triumphant, "Your father."

Quickly, Mary turned to Jules, "We need to leave," she whispered to him, "Please, please, we must go?"

The young author looked at Mary, bewildered, and then turned to his friend. "I don't understand, what does a planet have to do with your father?"

"Jupiter is not a planet, Verne," Fogg said crisply. "At least not in this context. It's a code name for her father. Am I right Miss Sykes?"

"I, ah," she stuttered, shaking her head.

"Mary?" Jules asked as he reached out to touch her cheek, She didn't react. "Mary?"

"Miss Sykes," Phileas said crisply as he knelt in front of her. He took both her trembling hands in his and held them firmly. "I will not lie to you, the sins of your father have placed your life in very great danger. But, we will protect you, I promise."

"They called him Jupiter," she finally whispered.

"Who?" Rebecca asked. 

"The murderers."

"The Italians," Rebecca said, the smile on face found its way into her voice.

"What's going on?" Mary asked. Her voice cracked. "Two men came to my house and murdered my father, Jules thinks that those same murderers have followed me half way across France for papers that I'm not even sure I have. And even If I do I don't know what they are or even how to read them!" She was crying now, and pulling her hands away from Phileas's firm grip and started to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Jules reached out to do that simple task for her, but she batted away his hands. It appeared to those watching that the young girl needed to steel herself away. 

"Come on dear," Rebecca said softly as she lifted the younger girl off the couch and started leading her to the extra bedroom in the back of the Aurora. "We've been horrible, questioning you after such a frightful experience. It'll all be better in the morning after you've rested."

Mary took a deep breath, and somehow found a center. "I'm sorry," she told Rebecca as she was lead away. "It's just, I need help, and if you are unable or unwilling, for any reason, to give it to me, then I need to find someone who can."

"Hush now," Rebecca said, leading Mary past a muted Phileas and Jules, "You've found someone to help you. But there's nothing to be done tonight, we'll figure something out tomorrow."

To be continued . . .


	3. Sacred with Moonlight

Chapter 3: Sacred with Moonlight

"So Verne," Phileas asked as the two men were reclining with a chaser of brandy in the Aurora's sitting room after the woman had left. "Where did you find the lovely Miss Sykes?"

"I didn't find her, she found me."

"Ah, yes, of course," Fogg said. "What I meant was where did you first meet her?"

  
  


"I was fifteen," Mary explained as Rebecca helped her get situated in the Aurora's cozy guest room. "He was eighteen, he stayed for a summer with his grandparents."

  
  


"My grandfather was ill," Jules explained. "My father thought it would be a good idea for me to spend some time at the family dairy farm. I could help my grandfather and learn about country life."

  
  


"His grandmother brought him over to our house one day for lunch. He was so shy, I don't think I said one word to me the whole time. Maybe it was my imagination, but I was sure I could feel his eyes on me."

  
  


"I couldn't stop looking at her, Fogg. She was so graceful, like poetry in motion. And her voice . . . well, you heard it."

"Yes," Phileas agreed, "Very lovely."

"I was bewitched," the young artist said, his tone of voice made it clear that he still was. "In fact that night I, ah, stayed up late and watched her house . . . daydreaming."

Phileas chucked, "Understandable."

  
  


"You have to understand something," Mary said quickly. "At that time in my life I was in the habit of escaping my room every night. My mother was very protective, she didn't want me to get hurt or lost. She never let me out of her sight, so after dark a stole a moment of freedom."

  
  


"I saw her climb out her window, gracefully, perfectly. She ran into the orchard and the moonlight in that clear country air, shining down on her as she dashed through the trees . . . it was beautiful. I've never seen anything to compare."

  
  


"When I escaped into the orchard that night, Jules came," Mary laughed at the memory. Rebecca smiled, dearly wishing that she had memories half as enchanting. "I could hear him practically fall out of his window and then, try and sneak up on me. I never doubted for a second that it was him, and I was never afraid. He said he was worried about me, just like my mother, worried I would get lost or hurt."

  
  


"It was a stupid thing to say," Jules said, it sounded as if, years later, he still considered it such. "I had nearly broken my arm and torn a huge hole in my shirt getting out of the window. She had slipped out of hers unscathed. But she wasn't mad. Quite the opposite, she did the most amazing thing. She, ah, told me to close my eyes," and if to demonstrate, Verne let his eyelids slide shut, "And then she took my hand and gave me a blind tour of the orchard. She showed me which trees were good to climb and which had the best fruit and where there was a root sticking out of the ground and where there was a rabbit hole."

  
  


"It was a silly thing to do," Mary admitted. "But my mother could think I was an invalid, my father could think that, the whole town could think that. They did think that. But this strange boy from Paris, I just didn't want him to think that."

  
  


"A whole new world opened up to me."

"The world of the blind?"

"In a way," Jules said. "A world where what you actually see is not important. It's what you know to be true that matters. I couldn't see the low branch, but I knew it was there. It was a world of words, Fogg, a world of description of pure creation. The entire basis for the way I conceived the world was centered in my eyes. This was far, far beyond it."

"It sounds like your still grappling with the ramifications," Fogg commented. He didn't quite understand Jules passion, spurred by a midnight stroll through a common orchard with his eyes closed, but he did respect it, and in a way, envied it.

"I wouldn't be who I am today if it wasn't for her," Jules said earnestly.

  
  


"We would talk every night and he would paint me pictures with words. He would describe Paris so well, with so much detail and life that I felt I had been there. He explained everything from what it felt like to milk a cow to what stars were, and what they looked like. I had never been allowed to leave the village, was rarely let out of the house. Jules gave me the world."

  
  


"Mary gave me my words. She taught me so much, I can't help but love her for that. I tried to write to her, keep in touch, but . . . we didn't." Jules lowered his voice. "I gave up on her, I pushed her into the past."

"And she's come back."

"I remember loving her," Jules said earnestly. "But not like this, it wasn't this strong."

"How do you mean."

"When we left we were sweethearts, saying goodby. Now she's grown up, and I've grown up, and . . ." he trailed off.

Fogg nodded, "I understand completely."

  
  


"Inside of me it feels, so foolish, but I can't help it," Mary tried to explain. "I haven't been near him for over five years, still, I feel like I'm in love with him."

"Might I go out on a limb and say that, if your feel that way, it's probably true?" Rebecca asked coyly. Mary's only response was a blush. 

There was a moment of silence, and then Rebecca finally said. "You look exhausted, I had no business engaging you in such an draining conversation after all you've been through."

"I am tired," the girl admitted.

"In that case, go to bed." Rebecca ordered, leading the girl to the soft feather bed covered a warm checkered quilt. As Mary ran her hands over it she couldn't help but think that it was the most luxurious thing she had ever felt. 

"If you need anything at all," Rebecca continued. "Just call for Passepartout, and don't be afraid to have him wake me."

"That's very kind, Miss Fogg, thank you. But I'm sure I won't need any thing."

The girls genuine humility and kindness were melting Rebecca's heart, "Please call me Rebecca. Miss Fogg is so formal, I can't think of one person I've ever liked who's called me that."

"Thank you," Mary said again, she was about to insist that she should also be referred to by her Christian name, however, a yawn interrupted her. 

"Now, to bed with you," Rebecca scolded, sounding very much like a cross nurse, and reveling in that fact. She quickly blew out the kerosine lamp, not that Mary noticed, and crept out of the room. 

***

"Ah Rebecca," Phileas said as his cousin descended the circular stairs. "I was hoping you'd come down soon."

"Where's Jules?"

"Our young friend has scampered off to bed. Apparently, he had a very tiring day."

Rebecca smiled as she sat on the couch next to her cousin, "I should think so."

Phileas leaned forward and pored himself a brandy out of a Kristal chaser, "Jupiter's daughter brought us the book."

"What luck," Rebecca commented, somewhat pleased with herself.

"If I weren't such a rational man I would almost consider it destiny."

"Destiny?" 

"Sir. Boniface betrayed her father," Phileas said flatly. "We have been given a chance for redemption."

"What are you talking about?" Rebecca scoffed.

"Father blamed Jupiter for the French leak in 1840."

"I thought that Lazarus was behind that."

"Oh, he was," Phileas assured her. "However, the honorable Sir Boniface could not believe that his good friend would be a traitor, so he found a scapegoat."

"Phileas," Rebecca scolded. "That is not what happened."

"It isn't far off," Phileas snapped. "Instead of carefully considering the evidence my father determined that one of our agents must have French sympathies. It was well known that William Sykes had married a French woman, that she was, in turn, pregnant, I can only assume with Mary. He was quickly cashiered out of the service and left pennyless. And because he had not actually stolen the papers he had no friends to welcome him. He disappeared." 

"Really?" Rebecca asked, fascinated. "I always wondered how one became a rogue agent. But Phileas, how can we know this William Sykes is Jupiter. I always thought that no one knew who Jupiter was."

"Father did, and I did."

"And how did you know?"

"When Jupiter appeared on the scene only months after Sykes's betrayal, Father had little doubt that it was him, but he could never prove it. And even if he could, Jupiter was very careful, very hidden, very protected."

"So there were attempts to," she hesitated, choosing her words very carefully. When Phileas got like this he was a powder keg, and the last thing she wanted to do was set him off. "Subdue him?"

Phileas sighed, disgusted with the conversation. "That's not important, Rebecca, what is important is that Sir Boniface and the English secret service did Mary's father a great disservice, it is up to us to make it up to her."

Rebecca sighed, accepting that she would get no more out of her cousin this night. "And how do you plan to do that?"

"I'm going to sell them this," Phileas said, holding up the book. "Or rather she is," he took a sip of brandy. "How much do you think Chadsworth would pay, ten thousand pounds?"

"Easily," Rebecca said, her voice slightly scolding. 

"You could live very comfortably in London for a very long time with ten thousand pounds, you know."

"I have a feeling she'd rather live in Paris."

"Paris? Why in God's name would she want to live in Paris?"

"Paris is home to some very attractive things."

Phileas laughed again, "They do seem perfectly matched, don't they?"

"Yes," Rebecca said warmly. "Perfectly."

There was a pause as the two people considered what had been said. After a moment Phileas broke the silence, "Are you jealous?"

Rebecca considered the question for a moment, "Do you know, I think I am.."

"So am I."

***

A high pitched shriek shattered the silence of the Aurora. It was a scream of pure terror colored with shades of pain and sorrow. It was short and sharp and woke everyone on the dirigible. Everyone on the ship ran to the source of the scream. But when Phileas, Rebecca and Passepartout reached Mary's room, they found Jules already there, sitting on the bed next to the girl, cradling her head and stroking her hair as she sobbed softly.

"Shhh," He said softly. He looked up, his soft hazel eyes meeting theirs. His next comment was as much to his friends as it was to Mary, "It's alright. It was a dream, just a dream." Mary nodded vaguely. Her eyes were tightly closed, but tears managed to escape them anyway. She leaned on Jules; he was her only support, her only comfort. He didn't seem to mind; on the contrary, he would have been hesitant to let her go for any reason. 

"Passepartout," Phileas said decisively. "Why don't you get Miss Sykes something to, ah, drink?"

"Yes master," the valet said before scampering out of the room.

"It must have been a very bad dream," Rebecca said taking a step closer to the bed. She waited for Mary to answer, but the girl remained silent. She glanced at Jules, but he was occupied with stroking the girl's hair. So she turned to Phileas, who took a deep breath and strolled past her so he could kneel in front of the bed.

"Mary," he said in his most compassionate voice, the tone and the quality of which communicated that he knew what it was like to be afraid and what it was like to have a hurt that could not be healed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The girl raised herself out of Jules embrace only slightly, "It's nothing," she told them, unconvincingly. "Just a dream."

"No, a dream is something that evaporates when you open your eyes," Phileas said softly. "You had a nightmare, and they, like demons, stay until they are exorcized."

Mary slumped back into Jules's embrace and let him wrap his protective arms more tightly around her. 

"Fogg," Jules said uncertainly, "Maybe the morning . . ."

"It won't go away with the daylight," Fogg said, still talking to Mary. "It's real, isn't it? It happened and you can't forget it, not even in your sleep?"

In Jules's arms, Mary suddenly became very tense, even though he was holding her, guarding her, he could feel her withdraw into herself for protection. He looked down at her frail form, tensed for a fight, and then over to Phileas, who was as open as Jules had ever seen him.

"Tell us about it," Phileas said kindly. "Tell us everything."

"Jules," Mary said, reaching out for his hand. He quickly moved so she could hold it, an helped her sit in a more upright position, although she was still leaning heavily on him. Once situated she licked her lips and dived into the darkest part of her mind. "It's not a new dream," she explained, her voice trembling. "I must have had it a thousand times. It's the only dream where I see things." 

"What do you see?" Rebecca asked.

"My mother, and my father, their faces are hovering over me," she extended her hand and placed it in front of her face, either to illustrate the distance or perhaps to touch the shadows in her mind that were no longer there. "My mother is crying: hysterical. My father's face is stern, set in stone."

"And?" Phileas encouraged.

"And suddenly my eyes hurt," Mary said simply. "They usually hurt, but not like this. Usually it's a dull ache, I don't even notice it. But this . . . it burns, and I, I can, can't think and I, I can't move and I can't get it to stop." A shiver flew down her spine and she retreated back into Jules's protective embrace. "And I wake up screaming."

"You say you've had these dreams before?" Fogg asked.

"All my life."

Jules turned to the woman for whom he had been acting as protector, both physically and emotionally, all night. His expression was a mix of compassion for her horrible dream, and disappointment in himself, "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

Mary bit her lower lip, "That summer, I, ah, didn't have the dream. Not once." she stuttered. "And I, I, I didn't . . . want you to know."

"But why?" Jules asked, dumbfounded.

Rebecca knew exactly why, but she didn't want Mary to have to say it. Instead she changed the subject. "Mary, forgive my impertinence, but were you born blind?"

"No," Mary said, glad that she wouldn't have to admit to Jules that she had been too proud and afraid to admit that she was susceptible to horrific nightmares as well as being blind. "When I was two I had a fever, I lost my sight."

"Did you?" Fogg asked suspiciously. "And what sort of disease brought that on? Influenza? Small Pox? Food poisoning?"

"I don't know." Mary answered bewildered. "Mother said she didn't want to talk about it."

"Naturally not," Phileas said, nodding. He glanced at Rebecca and saw that she was thinking the exact same thing as he. Mary's blindness was not natural, it was imposed by a father who, either to protect himself or perhaps to protect her, didn't want her to see anything she shouldn't. So, to be absolutely certain, he made sure she didn't see anything at all, ever. It wouldn't have been that hard, a few drops of a strong acid would have scared her irises beyond repair. And it would have hurt so much that, almost twenty years later, the pain was still there, on many levels. In Fogg's mind, Mary's sight was quicky added to the list of things the secret service had stolen from her. It was well above title and wealth, although he wasn't sure if was more or less important than freedom.

Phileas was pulled out of his morose meditations by the neat sound of clicking heels behind him, he looked up to see Passepartout with a tumbler of brandy on a silver tray.

"Ah, Passepartout, very good," he said, quickly standing up and moving over to Rebecca. "Why don't you give that to Miss Sykes."

The Frenchman walked over to where the couple was huddled on the bed. He seemed humorously unsure of how to give a glass to a woman who could not see it. Jules quickly solved the problem by taking the tumbler off of the tray and wrapping Mary's hands around it. "This will help," he told her.

"Help what?" Mary asked after she had taken a drink and her face had contracted into a wince. 

"You forget," the writer said simply.

She turned her head towards him, obviously interested. "Really?"

"It's supposed to, anyway."

"Well then," she said softly, managing somehow to smile. "Here's to forgetting," she took another drink and winced again, this time not so violently.

"Rebecca," Phileas said softly. She looked at him and he nodded that, perhaps, it was time to leave. Rebecca assented and soon the two young lovers were alone in the room.

"I'm sorry," Jules said, "Phileas can be . . . pushy sometimes."

"No, no, it was fine."

There was a very heavy silence in the room for a moment. 

"Jules," she finally said.

"Yes?"

"Would you stay here?" she asked. "In the room, holding my hand, until I fall asleep? I, I just . . . I really need to fell someone right now."

"Of course," Jules answered, brushing his fingers gently across his face before taking her hand in his. "I'll stay as long as you need me."

To Be Continued . . .

Hi! I as the author respectfully request that someone review after each chapter. I'm not dishing for complements, I just want to make sure people are in fact reading it and I'm not wasting my time. So if someone could just say "Hey, post the next one" it would be very helpful. Thank you.


	4. A Secret

Chapter 4: A Secret

The next morning Phileas descended the iron spiral staircase to discover warm biscits, cool butter and hot coffee on the table, Passepartout at the helm and Rebecca deeply involved with Jupiter's papers. Before he could announce his presence his manservant turned quickly around. 

"Master, are you wanting me to get you some breakfast?"

"No, no," the Englishman said, sitting at the table across from Rebecca. "What you have out is fine. Where are we, exactly?"

"We are just coming over the white cliffs of Dover, master. We should be getting to London before lunchtime."

"Ah, good," he sighed. As he poured some of Passepartout's excellently brewed coffee into a china cup. "And how are you doing this morning Rebecca?"

"Did you know that your father set Jupiter up twice, hired him so that one of our men could kill him?"

"You don't say," Phileas muttered with extreme disinterest.

Rebecca glanced up from her reading with a furrowed brow, "Did you know about that?"

"I knew every time father hired the man."

"And the assassination attempts."

"I didn't know."

"But you guessed?"

"Now, where is Verne and his lovely companion," Phileas said, changing the tone of his voice and through it the subject. "Still asleep?"

"No," Rebecca said, begrudgingly embracing the new topic. "Out on the observation deck."

"For God's sake, it must be absolutely freezing out there."

"I'm sure it is."

"They'll catch their death of pneumonia."

"Oh, I doubt that. I made sure they were all bundled up before they went out, even gave Mary my muffler."

"And why exactly are they out there?"

"'It has an awe inspiring view.'"

"You're joking."

"Those were Jules's exact words."

"But for God's sake, the girl is blind!"

"She seemed much more excited about the prospect than he was. In fact, I would say she dragged him out there."

***

The fact of the matter was that Mary had dragged Jules out to the observation deck, and they were both freezing in the wet, frigid air as the wind whipped around them violently. But, they didn't notice. Jules was entranced by the beauty around him, and Mary was bewitched by the beauty she was hearing.

"Every wave is a different color," Jules said, his voice weaving a tapestry that Mary could feel, if not see. "All different shades of blue, like a different texture, some soft some sharp. They crash into each other, creating a foam. It's a dance, like woman swirling around and their skirts touching each other, the diamonds on their rings sparkling in the light."

"It sounds beautiful," Mary said, taking a deep breath, tasting and smelling on the air what she could not see below her. "Go on."

"We're right over where land meets sea," Jules explained. "The water is angry, furious that it was stopped by the cold hard unfeeling masses of rock. The sea crashes against the rock in protest, hoping to swallow it up, slowly, very slowly, wearing it down. The water knows that it is greater, more powerful, and, some day, the sea will conquer the land and the rocks will tumble down into the ocean."

"That's dire," Mary said, pressing herself a little closer to Jules's warm presence.

"Oh," the writer said, realizing what a bleak picture he had painted. "Well, um, the water doesn't win, I mean, not in the end. It might get a rock or two here or there, but half way across the world the land is fighting it's way up through the water, building upon itself, creating mountains on the ocean floor until it towers over the waves and becomes an island."

"How does that work?"

"Oh," Jules said, thrilled that anyone was even remotely interested in his scientific knowledge. "You see the world is a ball and there is so much pressure on the outside of the ball that it melts rock into a liquid, and it pours out of the inside of the earth."

"How do you know this?"

"I read it."

"They write books about that kind of thing?" Mary asked amazed, before stuttering, "Oh, of course they do. They write books about everything." 

"You, ah," Jules said softly, "You wish you could read?"

Mary nodded. "There are times I would give anything to escape."

That was a strange choice of words, "Escape?"

"Into a book," she clarified, before admitting. "Into anything, really."

"Was your life at the orchard really that bad?"

"No," Mary said earnestly. "No, of course not. I loved it there. . . . I just think I would love it other places too."

"Why didn't you leave before now?"

Mary laughed, "My father wouldn't have allowed it."

"Do you miss him?"

The girl took a deep breath. "Not yet, but I will."

"I don't understand."

"I know how I am," she explained. "Everything is so exciting and new, right now. I feel free, I feel alive, I feel like . . ." she laughed sadly at herself.

"Like what?"

After a couple of false starts she managed to spit out, "Like how I felt as a girl, running though the orchard at midnight. I'm intoxicated with the thrill of knowing I'm doing something I shouldn't."

"But you're doing exactly what you should do," Jules argued. "You've surrounded yourself with people who are dedicated to protecting you."

"I'm not supposed to leave the orchard," Mary continued. "I can't even go into town to buy food. But I'm in an airship flying over England," She laughed at the sheer lunacy of her present position. "Father would . . . I don't know what he would do, he would be speechless, dumbfounded, with rage."

"Mary," Jules said, kindly. "You don't have to worry about that, you know. Your father's dead."

Mary nodded. "Oh, I remember. I just . . ." her voice trailed off as she started taking very controlled breaths, as if controlling her breathing meant she would be able to control her crying as well. She felt Jules's arm envelope her and pull her closer to him.

"We're flying over a river now," he said softly into her ear. "It winds through the land like . . . ah, like a bright blue ribbon in brown hair."

* * *

It was an hour until they reached England and, Phileas felt, there was a lot yet to discuss. Mary, with Jules sitting next to her, their hands entwined, listened intently and nervously. They expected bad news, the way Phileas had started the conversation they would be insane not to.

"My dear Miss Sykes, I'm afraid I have something to tell you that well, may, well may come as a bit of a shock. But I assure you, we are telling you the truth, and we are only telling you these things to help you."

"Fogg, what are you getting at?" Jules asked slowly.

"It's about the papers," Mary whispered into his ear. 

"You see my dear," Rebecca said, kneeling in front of Mary so that they were eye to eye, even if the girl could not really appreciate it. "It seems that your father was an international spy."

Perhaps it was too great of a shock, as Phileas had feared, so the announcement didn't really register in her consciousness, or perhaps Mary didn't quite understand what Rebecca had said, but most likely, Mary had received far too many shocks in far too short a period to find anything impossible to believe. Her only response was a calm, "Really?"

Rebecca started speaking again, trying to sound serious with the hope Mary would catch on that they were deadly serious. "His code name was Jupiter, he was a mercenary used by every nation's intelligence agency and feared by them as well. He was English by birth but defected after an, ah," she glanced at Phileas for permission to tell a part of the story. Silently, he didn't give it. "An adulteration," she continued. "With a superior."

Mary smiled, "That sounds like my Father."

"It was long rumored that he lived somewhere in France, but no one could ever find him, unless, of course, he wanted to be found. He had the most amazing way of turning up exactly when he was wanted."

"Miss Sykes," Phileas interrupted compassionately. "I feel you have the right to know that your father was not, in any way, a hero. He was a mercenary and, as useful as he was to many governments, he was also hated by all."

Mary nodded, although she was not smiling, "That does sound very much like my Father."

Rebecca glanced at her cousin, this didn't seem to be sinking in, either that or Mary truly wasn't surprised.

"Two weeks ago," Rebecca said, resuming the narrative. "Word got around that Jupiter was retiring, and more than that, was willing to sell his papers to the highest bidder."

"So they killed him?" Mary asked with surprising calm.

"His papers," Phileas started. He hesitated for a moment before leaning forward and taking one of Mary's hands away from Jules. It was cold, but dry, and very soft. He placed the small leather bond volume in her hand. "This book, contains records of all of his activities all around the world. It is a wealth of information about the security of every government and, quite possibly, the most valuable book in existence."

Mary didn't appear shocked or confused, merely concerned. She took the book and weighed it in her hands, felt the soft binding and the smooth pages. "And how do you know all of this?"

"Because," Rebecca said briskly. "We are also international spies." 

"Well," Phileas amended, "Rebecca is, I'm retired."

For the first time, the blind girl seemed skeptical. "Jules?"

"It's true," he said softly. "You can trust them."

"How do you know spies?" she asked him in a whisper.

"They saved my life."

"That's a good way to make friends."

Jules smiled and laughed. At the sound of his voice Mary smiled. It was such a pleasant smile that it seemed to wipe away all the tension in the room. Ten seconds ago, to the Fogg's Mary had, at best, been the friend of a friend, at worst the daughter of an enemy. Now she was something so much more dear. "Now that you know this," Phileas asked kindly. "What do you want to do?"

Mary considered this for a moment. She felt the book again, binding it to her memory, its weight, its textures, its sent. Then she extended it back to Fogg, "I don't want it," she said. "I assume you do."

***

After the Aurora landed in London the Fogg's started working on a plan to exchange the papers for a small fortune. Rebecca was still somewhat uncomfortable with the idea, but Phileas's utter conviction was overwhelming. And besides, it was technically his book, Mary had given it to him, not her. If he wanted to sell it to the service that was his prerogative.

"I still don't fill right about all this," Rebecca said, a hit of pouting and just a twinge of accusation in her voice.

"Trust me Rebecca, it is for the best," Phileas said quickly and sharply, he had said it one to many times in the past few hours. "Now the first thing you'll need to do is go to the shops and buy Mary some decent cloths."

"What?"

Phileas sighed, sometimes she could be so dense. "We want Chadsworth to take her seriously," he insisted. "He's a insufferable pig with a small mind. If we bring him a sweet French farm girl he's going to think he can walk all over her."

"Well he won't do that if we are there looking after her."

"What are you talking about?" Phileas scoffed. "Of course he will. He doesn't respect me one bit. And do you really think he respects you enough to respect her?" 

Rebecca sourly wanted to snap 'of course he does, you always think the worst of him because you are bitter!' But there were more untruths in that statement than truths and she couldn't bring herself to spit it out.

So she grabbed the girl and commandeered the valet and went to the shops where a pretty french girl could be transformed into an elegant french lady. 

Back at Phileas's grand London home the Englishman sat reading his fresh copy of the London times while the french man scribbled furiously in his notebook: creating, or perhaps recording, a world beyond any of his contemporary's dreams. One article in particular interested Phileas. It was the story of a disturbingly violent man who shot a woman he had been courting on and off because she refused to marry him, undoubtably because she knew he was the kind of man who would shoot a woman. According to the Times, he told the police that he loved her, loved her so much that he couldn't let her reject him. It was not a punishment, but rather an act of extreme devotion, the man was going to kill himself too, so that they could be together, unfortunately a pesky patrol cop heard the first shot and was able to prevent the second. As Phileas continued to read the paper, scrolling over the Investment listings, reading the society page and discovering the early morning return of the Aurora had made it to press, clicking his tongue at sloppy grammatical errors such as 'the lady sat on the horse wearing a red coat' and 'two man were seen fleeing from the sight,' he pondered the murder and the murderer and the motive. As he finished the paper he glanced at the gory story again and couldn't help but read one griping quote: "I love her so much, and she loves me, she just didn't know how."

"Verne," he said, trying to shatter the eerie feeling that surrounded his soul after reading that quote. "Here's a pretty literary problem for you. Define love."

Jules looked up from his writing and smiled, "Well, that's easy. 'Love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy it does not boast, it keeps no record of wrongs.'"

Phileas smiled, "True, true," he said with a half laugh, "I thought good Catholics didn't read their bibles."

"They don't have too, good Catholics pay attention during mass."

Phileas laughed again, "How about a less theological answer and a more erotic one."

"You're asking about Mary," the young man said, with great insight.

"So I am."

Jules sighed and turned his eyes towards the ceiling, or perhaps towards heaven. "When I'm with her, nothing else matters, but somehow her presence makes everything more real, more alive, more textured."

"And when you're not with her?"

"That's the strange part, I want to be with her again, naturally, but there isn't an urgency to my desire."

"I don't quite follow."

"I don't need her with me. Just the knowledge that she exists is enough to make the whole world brighter."

"You're in love."

"No," Jules said with conviction. "I'm in something much greater. Being in love is like being intoxicated, you can't think, you can't breath except for thinking and breathing that person. Mary is like a release, she's like a key that opens the door to who I really am. Plato said that lovers were really one soul split between two bodies, that's what it feels like. Like she completes me, fills in all the holes. I don't need her, but I don't want to be without her, it's a choice, not a passion."

"And do you think she feels the same way?"

Jules bit his lip, in many, many things he was naive and idealistic. But not with this, it was too much a part of him to allow himself to be swept away by his innate faith in goodness. "When she wraps my hands around hers, I'm sure of it."

"And other times?"

"I pray that it's as real for her as it is for me."

"Was your relationship anything like this the first time you knew her?"

This slight change in topic brought about a new enthusiasm for the young writer, "I've been thinking about that," he said, as if he were explaining one of his unbelievable inventions or improbable plot lines. "No and yes. We were so much younger, there was so much of the world, of ourselves, we didn't know. But yes. We were friends before we spoke and we understood each other far better than our short acquaintance should allow. She knew she could find me in Paris, I could have been off with you, been in England or America or Russia or Egypt or anywhere on this great earth. But even after she hadn't seen me for five years she knew she would find me in Paris. How can you explain that?"

"Extreme good luck," Phileas said crisply.

"Why are you asking all of this?" Jules said, his voice threatened to be filled with suspicion. "Don't you like her?"

"No Jules," Phileas said, only increasing his young friends misgivings with clear English frankness. "I like her very much."

"Why? Because she brought you the book?"

"Well, saving me from having to drag Rebecca all across the continent in search for something as nebulous as 'papers' did win her my deep gratitude," Phileas admitted. "However, that is not why I like her."

"Than why?"

"Because, she's strong. She doesn't need you, or me, or her father or any other man for that matter."

That was not the response Jules had anticipated. "I don't understand."

"There are two kinds of woman in the world, Jules, those that need you because they are fundamentally lacking, and those that are enough on their own. Mary is, thankfully, a member of the latter party."

"But she does need me," Jules argued, "She ran all the way from Brittany to Paris to find me."

"And she did it on her own," Phileas pointed out. "She was blind, had never left the house before and yet somehow she had the courage to travel to an unknown city hundreds of miles away."

Jules didn't have an answer for that, so Phileas continued. "She is who she is without you just as you are who you are without her. You might fill in cracks, help each other to be more yourselves, but you don't change her, and she won't change for you." Phileas leaned back and sighed, wistfully. "A woman with an identity is wonderful."

Slowly, Jules was beginning to understand. "Saratoga Browne had an identity."

"She did," Phileas said, a little sadly. "She knew who she was and what she had to do to protect herself," he paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and decided to let the past wait for a time when whisky would be more available. He needed to focus on the present, "Much like Mary."

"Of course," the young writer said, finally getting it. "She does what she has to do. She's not too proud to ask for help."

"But not so weak as to demand it," Phileas finished. "If you had been unwilling I'm quite sure she would have found someone else."

"Yes," Jules said softly, his voice filled with a new respect. "I'm sure she would have."

To Be continued . . . .

  
  
  
  
  
  


Thanks for the notes last time, please keep it up.


	5. I could tell you the address

Chapter 5: I could tell you the address

Mary entered the room in much the same way Gabriel appeared before the blessed Virgin, in glory and grace and unspeakable beauty, at least that was Jules opinion. The other three people in the room had somewhat less-divine images of her; Rebecca thought she was lovely, Phileas considered her charming, and Passepartout found her enchanting. But Jules was unquestionably bewitched by the young woman the a burgundy dress. Her hair, usually confined to a thick braid down her back, had been carefully combed and clipped and pulled away from her deep brown eyes with tortoiseshell combs and her face had been painted to bring out the rose in her cheeks and the flush in her lips. 

"Well," Rebecca said shortly, anxious to hear the assessment of her creation. "What do you think?"

"Well done, Rebecca," Phileas said, admiration evident in his voice. "She's perfect."

"And what do you think, Jules?" Rebecca was watching, with great pleasure, the wonderstruck expression on the young writer's face. 

Jules did not return his friend's glance, his eyes remained solely focused on the young lady in front of him. "Mary," he said softly. "You are so very beautiful."

Quite obviously, Rebecca, Phileas and Passepartout's opinion of her appearance was only a minor concern to Mary, what mattered was what Jules thought. At his words she blushed with pleasure, and smiled, which made her all the more lovely. "Thank you," she said softly.

"It is really being to bad that you are not able to see you're picture in the mirror, Miss Mary," Passepartout said. Phileas shot an icy glare at his valet, or perhaps his folly, who quickly realized that it was not polite to remind people of their shortcomings. Passepartout's eyes grew wide as he realized what he had done and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of a graceful way to apologize. 

However, Jules didn't let Passepartout have that chance. "It doesn't matter," he said, taking a step closer to Mary. He reached out with one hand and his fingers touched her cheek before cascading down to her shoulder, skimming over the satin sleeves and finally reaching her hand, wrapped in a lace glove. "You look like wine," he told the girl. "A Cabernet. Rich and full but not overpowering . . ."

"I don't know," Phileas whispered to his cousin, "she seems to have him overpowered."

"Shhh," Rebecca replied sharply, she was very eager to hear the impromptu poetry.

"You radiate warmth," Jules continued. "You're elegant and graceful and sophisticated . . . and warm. The longer I look at you the more beautiful you become, you settle and blossom on my eye's pallet. And I know that when I close my eyes your flavor will stay, a strong, sweet aftertaste. You have a beauty that can't be contained in a body, or a bottle. I . . . I . . . I just wish I could wrap words around it." Jules took another step closer to her and, with his free hand, brushed her cheek letting his hand rest in the graceful arch where her neck met her shoulder. "But I suppose," he said softly. "That that is part of your beauty."

"Thank you," Mary said softly, as her cheeks became a subtle shade of rose. She had never been called beautiful before, at least not to her face, but far more valuable and flattering than being compared to some visual representation which would elude her, she had been compared to something she knew well and appreciated, a fine wine.

"Everything," he replied as softly, "even the blush."

Mary giggled softly and then, half out of propriety and half out of nervousness, she pulled herself away from him and his intoxicating words. 

"What?" Jules asked, uncertain of her response, and accordingly, of himself.

"You speak so beautifully," she told him. She couldn't stop from smiling, although she felt she aught to. "You don't know how much that means to me."

If she were able to see the curious look in Jules' eyes she might have been compelled to explain more. But she didn't see his large, gray eyes, and so she was able to slip away.

****

"Miss Fogg," Sir Jonathan Chadsworth said incredulously as Rebecca, followed by Mary, and then by Phileas. "What is the meaning of this parade?"

"Chadsworth," Phileas scoffed. "Three people hardly constitutes a parade.

"I am not interested in your opinion Fogg," the head of the English secret service said. "Nor am I interested in you're new friend."

"Are you sure of that, Sir Jonathan?" Rebecca asked coyly.

"All that does interest me, at present, Miss Fogg, is your mission, which I can only assume you failed considering I sent you out only two days ago."

"As it turns out," Rebecca said articulating meticulously "I did not. May I introduce you to Miss Mary Sykes."

"I thought I told you . . ." Sir Jonathan started, before Phileas cut him off, cold and sharp like a knife.

"She is Jupiter's daughter."

There was a moment of silence while Sir Jonathan was baffled and amazed, Rebecca was proud, Phileas was defiant and Mary was extremely uncomfortable. She lived for a second in self-conscious uncertainty before stepping, with a caution that ended up looking like grace, towards Sir Jonathan's voice. "I'm very pleased to meet you," Mary said, none of her uncertainty was audible. 

The Red faced Chadsworth looked like a boorish ass in front of the serene French girl. And to make it even better, Chadsworth was perfectly aware of how her civility made him look, which flustered Chadsworth even more, and than Phileas smiled at the situation, which only infuriated the head of the secret service further. When he did answer it was short and angry, "And I am very displeased to meet you," he spat out before turning suddenly to Rebecca, "I told you to bring me Jupiter's papers, not his daughter."

"Don't be an idiot," Phileas scolded, "She has the papers."

"And yet, I don't," Chadsworth said. "Miss Fogg, this is unacceptable."

"Mr. Chadsworth," Mary said calmly, just as she had been coached to on the carriage ride to Chadsworth's office. "I would be happy to give you my father's papers."

"Really, would you?" Chadsworth said sarcastically.

"Now," Phileas said sharply, He was no longer amused by Chadsworth's crudeness. "Do not forget that you are speaking to a lady. If you cannot find it in yourself to be civil to her for that reason at least try to remember that she has something you want."

"Am I to understand that we are to bargain for the papers?"

"And to think, of all the people who could have replaced me, they chose you," Phileas said, disgusted.

"Your father chose me because I was more than qualified," Chadsworth spit out, as he had done countless times in the past.

"Gentlemen," Rebecca interrupted, not really wanting to hear the old arguments one more time. "I hardly think this is the time."

"And you, Miss Fogg, encouraging this, this, Highway robbery! You have a duty!" 

"This is hardly a highway robbery, Sir Jonathan," Rebecca said. "She has something you want and is willing to sell it to you, it seems to be Laze Faire. And for your information, my duty never included stealing from innocent girls."

"You honestly expect me to pay for those papers?"

"They're all I have, Sir," Mary's voice was uncluttered, neither frightened nor angry. "The only things of worth, at least. I can't give away my inheritance."

"Be that as it may," Chadsworth said, trying to regain some of his dignity. Of course, dignity can not exist without a degree of grace or reason, and at this moment, Sir Jonathan had neither. "I will not pay through the mouth for something that is rightfully the property of the British secret service!"

"Now, Sir Jonathan, be reasonable," Rebecca said, keeping her voice as reasonable as possible.

"No," Phileas said, stepping forward and taking Mary's arm. "I can see that reason would be wasted on you, Chadsworth. Mary will be joining us at Shilingsworth Magna for Christmas. If you find that you are willing to negotiate in the new year we will be back in time for the Queen's Ball on the 31st."

"Fogg, don't you dare walk out of here . . ."

"You are in no position to give me orders, Chadsworth," Phileas said not even looking at the man he addressed as he escorted the blind girl out of the office. Mary heard the door shut behind them, "Where's Rebecca?" she whispered.

"Unfortunately, my cousin has yet to cut her ties with the service," Phileas said, not in a whisper, but in an amazingly quiet voice nonetheless. "She does not have the luxury of walking out on that insufferable ass when he spews his putrescent prattle."

"Rebecca was supposed to find my father's papers. Just like the men that killed him, only English instead of Italian,"Mary said, her voice was hollow, her body was rigid.

"No," Phileas responded in the same quite forcefull voice. "She would not have murdered your father in cold blood, and she would not have threatened you. It is the same game, with the same rules, but each player is diffrent. Rebecca crept in the night and stolen, but she would not have killed."

In Chadsworth's office, Mary had been secure in the knowledge that the Foggs were protecting her, suddenly that assertion seemed inherently faulty. Phileas could hear her fear in Mary's breathing. He was wise enough to know she wanted to run, only strength of will and faith kept her at his side.

"We would not hurt you, Mary." Phileas assured her with an earnestness too passionate to be faked. "Rebecca and I are dedicated to protecting you, that's why we brought you back with us. Please believe us, and if you find you can't, at least believe Jules. You know he would say the same"

Mary relaxed, if only slightly. "That man would kill me."

"Nonsense," Phileas said, lightheartedly. "That would take a level of decisiveness Sir Jonathan Chadsworth is incapable of." 

* * *

"No," Rebecca said, aghast.

"You can not say 'no'," Chadsworth asserted. "It is an order, not a polite suggestion."

"That girl is my friend, I will not steal from her."

"She is not your friend, Miss Fogg, she is the only thing standing between you and your objective, which makes her, by default, your enemy."

"What you're asking me to do is wrong, and unnecessary," Rebecca insisted. "To steal from a blind girl."

"That should only make it easier."

"No!" Rebecca asserted angrily. "I will not."

"You are as stubborn as your cousin."

"Perhaps you mean as moral," Rebecca insisted.

Perhaps because of the truthfulness of her statement, or perhaps because he was realizing that he could not make her do anything, Sir Jonathan became extremely frustrated. "Miss Fogg, you are dismissed! I do not want to see you in here again until you can present me with Jupiter's papers!"

"Wonderful," Rebecca said, her voice conveying many things - none of them delight. "Then the next time we meet I will know you have succumbed to reason." She quickly turned and stormed out of the office before Sir Jonathan had a chance to stumble across a reply to her insult. He did, however, reason his way to a solution to his problem. 

Before the end of the day he had three of the sharpest new recruits to the secret service standing before him, three men who never met Phileas Fogg and had only heard of Sir Boniface. "I have a very delicate mission for you," he told the eager eyed men. "In fact, it is the kind of mission that can guarantee a promotion if successfully carried out."

The three men smiled, even more eagerly than before, if possible. They were all about twenty, recent graduates from various academies across England and even more recently from the secret service's own training program. The one to the far left was small and nimble, an athlete of the highest degree. He had been training to be a jockey when the secret service picked him up, although he had been the star player on the Eton rugby team and payed for his schooling through prize fighting in small rings in the country side surrounding the school. It was fabled that he never lost a match, but upon some investigation the secret service discovered he had lost a total of three in four years, all in all, not a bad record. His name was Peter Stokes. The man in the middle, Ralston Cummings, was Stokes exact opposite, an intellectual who had graduated with top marks from Oxford in law. He was also a master chess player, having been the leader of the Oxford chess club for three years. Sir Jonathan knew that Cummings was the only man of the three with the brains or the subtlety to lead the job properly, however, there was a great deal of politics involved in this case, and so he made the third man, or boy rather, the leader. His name was Winston Chervil VIII. The son of one of the house of Lords most prominent members, the nephew of a duke and a family friend of the Royal family, it was impossible to deny him entrance into the secret service, and even less possible to put him under some commoner's command. Of course, if Sir Boniface, or more-so Phileas Fogg, had been in charge of the service, Chervil would not have been allowed to do anything more than file the reports made by real agents. But Chadsworth knew far better than either Fogg how to play the politics game. He would not be the head of the service forever, he would be the national Secretary of Defense, or one of the Queen's advisors soon enough. But key to reaching one of those exalted positions was controlling the service well, and key to doing that was retrieving Jupiter's papers. "It is a search and seizure procedure," he said. "A freelance spy, code name Jupiter, has recently died. His memoirs are a treasury of information about every intelligence agency in Europe. I want you to retrieve them for me."

"Where are they?" Cummings asked. "Does another intelligence agency have them?"

"No," Sir Jonathan said. "Jupiter's daughter, a Mary Sykes, presently possesses them. She's sworn not to give them to us," Sir Jonathan said, not amending that she would gladly sell the documents. "Unfortunately, she is under the protection of some very powerful people in the English Government, friends of the Queen and such. It will be tricky business getting them from her."

"May I ask, sir," Cummings interrupted. "Why is she set against the English secret service if she is under the protection of an Englishman?"

"That is none of your concern!" Chadsworth snapped. The startled look on Cummings' face forced the head of the secret service to remember himself. "Suffice to say that her host is not as serious about his duty as you are yours." He waited for Cummings to challenge him further. When no challenge came, Chadsworth smiled and start outlying a plan that was so simple that not even the arrogant Chervil could get it wrong.

To be continued . . . (And don't forget to review!)


	6. With the light on her shoulder

Chapter 6: With the light on her shoulder

Rebecca reached the London Address of Phileas Fogg right as the church bells began to toll, telling all in the houses of prayer and worship that the time for their weekly devotion had passed and they were released into a shockingly ungodly world. As she sloshed through the gray snow that covered the filthy streets she was accompanied by many people in their Sunday best. And while Rebecca would rather have liked to have heard reviews of the various sermons and considered opinions on the theological discourses she heard far more about Mrs. Chesterfield in the choir who could not hit A sharp to save her life, and the gall of Mrs. Helstine who should have known better than to wear black so near a Christ Mass. 

Rebecca smiled quietly. It was Christmas Eve. At Midnight she would have to go to Mass. Then on Christmas Day she would sleep late into the morning and then around three there would be a little feast for all the servants and then at nine there would be the Ball at Shilingsworth Magna and she would be the hostess and all the men would want to dance with her. Her smile found its way into a smug giggle - Rebecca couldn't hide it. She loved the Christmas season.

Finally she reached her cousin's large house and knocked smartly on the door.

There was no answer.

Puzzled, she knocked again, louder. And she waited again, longer. Still, there was no answer.

Passepartout was a dedicated and excellent servant, Phileas was a meticulous and exacting master. For the door to go so long unanswered something must be horribly wrong. She reached into her well stocked handbag and pulled out a ring of keys. There was a key to her lodgings at a boarding house for independent women, a key to the locks on the Aurora. And a key to anything else, ever. It was an ingenious self-adjusting skeleton key given to her by the secret service that finally opened the door for her. 

"Hello?" she called to whomever would answer. Receiving no response she walked full into the entry way and closed the door behind her. 

The house was utterly quiet, which bothered Rebecca more than she cared to admit. In her experience, quiet was dangerous. She didn't hang up her fur wrap as she proceeded through the house, nor did she take off her gloves or hat or set down her handbag. She had no idea what she would encounter and she wanted to be prepared for everything. The foyer, the library, the bedrooms, the lab, the kitchen, all empty and neat - with the exception of a very good stew stewing on the stove.

"Oh dear, Phileas," she muttered as she examined the library fruitlessly. "Where on earth have you gone?"

"To church," the crisp, bright voice of Phileas boomed. Rebecca was so startled she let out a high pitched screech and pivoted quickly only to see her cousin, with Jules and Mary behind him, beaming at her with annoying joy. "Where else would be a body be on a beautiful Sunday morn such as this?" Phileas asked as he strolled into the library, a playfulness dancing in his eyes and on his voice.

"I'm sure I have no idea," Rebecca spat back at him, still annoyed that she had been worried for nothing and startled on top of it. 

"Mary asked if we could go to mass," Phileas explained in a near whisper as soon as he was close enough to discuss with her privately.

"And you went with her?"

"Naturally," Phileas said softly.

"And Passepartout? He wanted to go as well?"

Phileas nodded vaguely, but his attention had been drawn away from their conversation by another one. "I say Rebecca," he said softly. "What do you make of that?"

Jules and Mary had made their way to one of the couches in the library and were conversing between themselves in voices as hushed as Rebecca and Phileas had used.

"It's young love," Rebecca explained simply. 

* * *

The voyage to Shilingsworth Magna was, thankfully, uneventful. The entire time Jules and Mary were curled up on the couch in the sitting room of the Aurora as he read her from the book of Tobit. In the lab upstairs Phileas read to Rebecca from the Book of Jupiter's. 

"He has everything in here Rebecca," Phileas said, with amazement. "Every time Father hired him or he was hired to compromise the secret service's work."

"Apparently William Sykes didn't want to forget anything."

"But why?" Phileas insisted. "If I were a rogue agent I would not want to have a record of my actions available to anyone. It's far too dangerous."

"Dangerous? Surely not."

"It killed Mary's father," Phileas said soberly. "Whatever his motivations were, I highly doubt it was to insure his quick death."

"I wonder if he planned this," Rebecca said softly. "In his younger days kept a record so that he could sell it when he was too old to work."

"A sort of insurance?"

"It's a possibility."

There was a moment of silence while Phileas stared at the text and Rebecca contemplated the consequences of writing down her adventures in some bizarre memoir.

* * *

Jules rolled out of bed around nine on Christmas day. As a rule, he was not an early riser. He would often write all night and only tumble into bed around dawn and reemerged around noon to have lunch in Thomasa's Café with Felix and Bridgette and which ever of his other artistic friends were able to make it. It was the bohemian lifestyle and he loved it. 

But when he was with the Foggs, he kept their hours, which meant, more often than not, bed at ten and breakfast at seven. But after the midnight mass, or rather, after the small, innocent kiss Mary and given him after he escorted her to her room deep within the maze that was the manor house, he couldn't sleep. He was up till well after three, his stomach full of butterflies and tied in knots at the same time. His overactive imagination projecting possible futures, all of them revolving around her. The more he thought of it the more impatient he got, he wanted to see her, and start fulfilling all those dreams. Unfortunately, when he finally found Phileas Fogg in one of the many parlors scattered throughout Shilingsworth Magna, it was already too late.

"They've gone upstairs," Fogg said simply, turning another page in his small copy of the collected writings of Origin. "I'm afraid there is nothing to be done."

"Upstairs?" Jules said. "Well I just go up and . . ."

"No," Phileas said sharply, snaping his book shut and losing his place. Jules' bewildered stare and the soft quiet that followed made him realize that he might have reacted a little too harshly. "They are preparing for the ball."

"Why can't I go up and see her?" Jules asked innocently.

Phileas sighed as he paged through the thick volume and tried to find his place, "I don't know Verne," he said, annoyed. "There are times when it is good and proper that men and women be separated and, apparently, the day before a grand ball is one of those times."

"Of course," Jules said glumly his gray eyes sad and focused on his feet and his voice barely more than a mumble. 

Phileas could hardly bear to see his young friend so crestfallen, he quickly tried to put the most positive spin on the situation as was humanly possible. "Now look Verne, the feast starts at four, which means Rebecca will have to be back no later than three-thirty. She is the hostess after all."

"And Mary will be with her?" Jules asked eagerly.

Phileas considered this for a moment, before finally, hesitantly, saying, "No. She'll most likely come down later."

Jules didn't respond, so Phileas, trying to justify this illogical source of disappointment, kept talking. "She is a guest after all, we can't have her here too early now can we?"

"I suppose not," Jules muttered, half heartedly.

"There's a good man," Phileas said, finding his place again and resuming his reading. "Why don't you find a book to pass the time? The library is full of old french volumes my mother read, and haven't been touched since. It would be nice if they could be used for something other than collecting dust."

Jules nodded and found his way into Shilingsworth Magna's library. It was not a huge library, as in some grand old English estates. He could tell by the eclectic array of books that the Fogg's throughout history, had been men of action, not of words. There were a great many histories of wars and political intrigue as well as volume after volume in almost any language about the various arts of strategy. And finally, in a corner that was only slightly dusty, he found a small cache of the French classics. As jolly a read as Voltair or Molier would have been at the time, and as much as Jules loved Balzac and Hugo, he wanted to try and find something different. After browsing for a few moments he stumbled across Paul et Virginia a work by St. Pierre that he was only vaguely familiar with and had the kind of title that applied to a young man in love. Satisfied with his selection, he found his way back to the warm parlor where Phileas was resting, curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs and dove into the classic story of innocence, love, and tragedy.

* * * 

The Ball was a dizzying array of pretty country girls, handsome farmers, and quaint older couples. Jules found himself, whisked away from Mary, pulled apart by the local gentry. Just as Rebecca, with her red hair and green dress, looked like a Christmas Elf, Mary looked like an angel. She was wearing a cream colored satin dress that left her shoulders bare so her black hair, almost entirely pulled back into fashionable curls, could rest there. Every one of the farmer's sons wanted to dance with the lovely young woman who was shy and foreign and mysterious and, above all, a great friend of the richest people in the county. 

Jules was even more popular. A young, handsome, french writer who had had adventures around the world was easily the most sought after dance partner. The two lovers would have gladly disappeared together into some small little corner of the great Fogg estate, but Jules knew that Phileas and Rebecca wanted him to be social, and Mary knew that her protectors wanted to keep her in sight. So they contented themselves to the fact they would have to pass the majority of the night in some other person's arms, swirling around the dance floor. Jules felt slightly guilty when, hearing the piano start to play the first few notes of a French waltz, he turned down the lovely English girl who was begging for just one dance, and sought out the beautiful French girl who was standing, frightened and confused, amongst a swarm of young men.

"Please dance with me, Mademoiselle," one of the English accented voices that surrounded Mary said. "You will see that I am as light footed as a feather."

"No, Miss Sykes," another voice interjected. "You must dance with me, not that stinky pig farmer."

"Pardon Mademoiselle," a wonderful French voice said behind her. "Il est tres importainte qui nous dancons. Je t'adore, mon belle amie."

Mary blushed sweetly as she turned to face the voice she knew so well. "Oui Monsieur," she answered softly. "C'est le soul desire de ma coure."

"Excuse us gentlemen," Jules said as he slipped Mary's arm into his and lead her out to the dance floor. 

"I've been waiting for you all night," she whispered into his ear as they started to dance. "I hope you're not too tired."

Jules' heart about burst, she had been waiting for him. As she rested her head on his chest, he tried to think of something to say, some way to let her know that he too, had waited all night, no all his life, for her.

"'When I am wearied, the sight of you refreshes me. If from the summit of the mountain I perceive you below in the valley , you appear to me in the midst of your orchard like a blooming rosebud. If you go towards me the partridge, when it runs to meet its young, has a shape less beautiful and a step less light. When I lose sight of you through the trees, I have no need to see you in order to find you gain. Something of you, I know not how, remains for me in the air through which you have passed, -- on the grass whereon you have been seated. When I come near you, you delight all my senses. The azure of the sky is less charming than the blue of your eyes, and the song of the nightingale is less soft than the sound of your voice. If I only touch you with the tip of my finger, my whole frame trebles with pleasure.'*"

Mary suddenly felt very weak. She moved a little closer to him and he rested his head on hers so he could smell the perfume Rebecca had placed in her hair. 

The waltz slowed and eventually stopped, forcing the two lovers to step apart. Jules didn't want to let go, his arm lingered around her waist and his hand found it's way to her cheek. Every part of him wanted to lean forward and kiss her, but he savored that longing for a moment to long, and lost the opportunity.

"That was lovely, Jules," Rebecca said. Her voice hit him like ice cold water. "I had no idea you were such a dancer."

"Usually I'm not," Jules said, glancing at Mary. When he looked back towards Rebecca, she was looking at him with eyes that contained a wily smile.

"I think, young sir, that it is your turn to dance with the hostess."

Jules smiled, "I would love to Rebecca, but Mary . . ."

"Can dance with Phileas." Rebecca assured him. "Now come along."

The English lady grabbed his arm and pulled him out on the dance floor in an almost unladylike manner, leaving her gentleman cousin to, in a most genteel manner, dance with Mary.

"I apologize for my cousin," Phileas said kindly as they started dancing. "She will not take no for an answer, ever."

"It's alright," Mary said meekly. "I love Rebecca."

"Do you really?" Phileas asked, just a little surprised.

"She's so kind," Mary insisted. "And wise and beautiful."

"Beautiful?"

"Isn't she?"

"As a matter of fact she is. But I didn't think that would matter to you."

"Her spirit is beautiful too."

Phileas cocked his head and looked, not for the first time, at this young woman with sheer amazement. "Yes, I suppose it is." There were a few bars of graceful silence before Phileas remembered the mission Rebecca had given him before shoving him onto the dance floor. "And, ah, Jules, do you love him too?"

"More than breathing," she said without hesitation, then, with hesitation she added, "Why do you ask?"

"Because," Phileas said at length, "I am an old, embittered, sworn bachelor and, as much as this lifestyle suites me, Jules is a romantic, and he deserves a life better than this."

"You are a good friend," Mary said. "Jules is honored to have you counted among his confidants. And I would be dead if you had not become my protector. I'll never be able to thank you properly."

The young girl's voice was so honest and the way she clung to him as they twirled around the dance floor, with inexplicable childlike trust, Phileas wondered how he would ever be able to thank her for giving him a secure sense of hope. She was a rose that grew up among thorns, a fire on an ice field, a holy prayer in a world of heathens. "Mary," Fogg responded with a kind, almost fatherly tone in his voice. "Protecting you is my duty, and never, in my long career, have I ever taken so much pleasure from performing a duty." 

Across the dance floor Rebecca and Jules were having a very similar conversation.

"Ah, Rebecca," Jules said uncertainly.

"Yes Jules?"

"Shouldn't I be leading?"

"Oh, yes," Rebecca said, blushing and pausing while the younger man asserted his manhood by waltzing.

She let him have a few measures to find the beat before she distracted him, "So Jules, tell me about Mary."

"It seems as if you and Phileas have been spending more time with her than I have in the past few days."

Rebecca laughed softly, "Perhaps I was being a bit selfish. But the way I see it, you got a whole summer with her when you were 18, I've only gotten a few days."

"I still can't believe she found me," Jules said with wonder, "It seems like a fantasy. Every morning I expect to wake up back in Paris and find that it was all a dream."

"I can assure you Jules, that this is very real," Rebecca said, a little too seriously.

Jules could feel her tense in his arms. For some inexplicable reason, she was suddenly very concerned about something, "What is it?"

Not surprisingly, she didn't answer. "Will you excuse me?" she said as she slipped out of his arms and glided across the dance floor, deftly avoiding the dancing couples until she reached a young man in a simple tweed suit standing awkwardly at the entry of the ballroom talking with McKiver, Shilngsworth Magna's head butler. 

Jules stared at his partner for a moment, baffled by her behavior, before Phileas and Mary sashayed over.

"I say Verne, your partner seems to have found someone more interesting to talk to."

"Who is that, Fogg?" Jules asked, gently taking Mary out of his friend's arms.

"I'm not sure," Phileas said, as he adjusted his tie and straightened his suit jacket. "However, I think I should find out." He also made a bee-line for the newcomers at the door, but he was not nearly as graceful. He did not avoid the dancing couples, they avoided him.

"What's happening?" Mary asked, leaning in and whispering so that her breath tickled the small hairs on his neck.

"Rebecca is talking to a stranger," Jules said, "And Phileas went to see what was going on." 

"Do you think there is a problem?"

Jules hesitated. They both seemed very concerned with this new arrival, and while it was normal for Phileas to be paranoid, Rebecca was usually quite level headed, and would only become truly concerned if something were truly the matter. But there was no reason to tell Mary that, "No, no. Just country business I'm sure."

  
  


* At this point, without realizing it, Jules was quoting from Paul and Virginia, by Bernardin De St. Pierre. He, of course, changed a few of the lines to fit the situation. But I can guarantee you that he felt the same way as Paul did.

  
  
  
  


To be continued . . . 

(The more you review, the sooner the chapter will be up.)

  
  



	7. One Midnight

Chapter 7: One Midnight

"Rebecca," Phileas said with a mildly shaming tone, "You left your dance partner standing cold, that hardly seems polite."

"Ah, Phileas," his cousin said delicately, "This is Ralston Cummings."

"Oh, it's a pleasure," Phileas said as he shook the younger man's hand.

"Likewise, I'm sure," Cummings replied nervously.

"He's come with a message from Sir Jonathan," Rebecca said.

"Really?" Phileas's voice was sprinkled with pleasant surprise. "Shall I fetch Miss Sykes?"

"Actually, Mr. Fogg, that, ah, won't be necessary," Cummings said.

"He's come for me," Rebecca explained. "It would seem that my presence is greatly desired in London."

"I thought you'd quit until Chadsworth came to his senses."

"No, Phileas, that's what you wanted me to do. I do have a duty to the service you know."

Oddly, Cummings didn't know. He had assumed that Miss Rebecca Fogg was related to Sir Boniface, but he would have never guessed that she knew about the service, it was suppose to be a secret. He was even more amazed that she considered herself to have a duty to them. Suddenly, it all made sense. If she was an agent and she was protecting Mary Sykes against Chadsworth's wishes then logically he would send other agents to flush the young french woman out. This was not a simple search and seizure procedure, this was espionage of the highest degree, spy vs. spy with the greatest stakes and where the rules, not to mention the motives, were unknown. Cummings tried to keep his face straight as the epiphany washed over him but was unsuccessful. To his great advantage, no one was paying attention to him.

"Yes," Phileas grumbled to Rebecca, "I know."

"Miss Fogg," Cummings said meekly, "We should go quickly. I've been instructed to see you on a train before midnight."

Rebecca turned her often curious eyes to Cummings, "You're not coming?"

"Ah, no," Cummings said uncertainly. The original plan had him escorting Miss Fogg, but that was obviously no longer possible. Chervil and Stokes had no idea what they were dealing with. "I was told to send you ahead."

"That seems odd," Phileas said.

"Ah," Cummings stuttered. "I didn't ask why."

"Come now, Phileas," Rebecca intoned. "You know that Sir Jonathan never tells his entire plan."

"Naturally, it's ridiculous to give intelligence operatives information before sending them on a mission. It would only clutter things up."

"Hush," Rebecca scolded, before turning to Cummings. "I don't suppose I have time to change?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss."

"Very well," Rebecca sighed. "Phileas, be sure to give Jules and Mary my regards and, ah . . ."

"Look after her? You don't have to tell me Rebecca."

Rebecca smiled and before leaning forward and placing an affectionate kiss on her cousin's cheek. Then she turned away to the servant in the kilt, "McKiver, fetch my cloak please, I'm leaving immediately." 

"Yes Madame," the Scotch butler said.

Rebecca was soon wrapped in a velvet coat lined with soft rabbit's fur and ready to be escorted to the train station. Cummings, on the other hand, did not seem ready to leave at all. His eyes had wandered over the crowd and he had found what he was looking for, a girl who seemed very much out of her element. She fit Sir Jonathan's description perfectly and, as much as it could be determined from across a dance floor, she seemed blind. 

"Are you ready?" Rebecca asked, breaking him out of his rather intent observation of Mary. "If you want to stay for the dance your more than welcome."

"I'm not dressed for it."

"Oh, by this time in the evening most people are too drunk to notice that kind of thing."

"No," Cummings said, pulling his eyes away. "Thank you, but no."

"As you wish," Rebecca said, offering the younger man her arm. He took it and, reluctantly, lead her out of the warm house into the sharp night air. Leaving, hopefully, their target unprotected.

* * * 

Jules watched the Foggs for a moment, just long enough to see that they would not notice if he and Mary slipped out of the Ballroom in favor of more intimate surroundings.

"Mary," Jules asked, his voice full with passion and trembling with excitement. "Do you want to, maybe,"

"Go somewhere quiet?" she finished. "With you."

"Yes."

"Just lead the way," Mary said sweetly. 

Jules's heart jumped with joy, only to be informed by his head that the door leading to the rest of the house was all the way across the dance floor. And by the time they had navigated around the waltzers Rebecca would certainly have noticed their escape and cut it off, forcing the young lovers to be polite and social.

However the, huge, beautiful, french windows leading to the gardens were only yards away. "Would you mind taking a stroll outside? It might be a little cold." Jules asked, knowing quite well that he would be warm in his wool tuxedo and thick dress shirt, but Mary was wearing a sleeveless dress, made of cream colored silk and lace that had been Rebecca's years and years ago. It didn't appear to Jules to be a particularly warm dress, nor a particularly comfortable one. "I'll give you my jacket."

Mary smiled, blushed, nodded and allowed the young man to lead her out of the doors. Once they were outside, he slipped the jacket over her bare shoulders and smoothly placed her arm in his. 

"What does it look like?" Mary asked softly as they strolled through the snow covered garden.

"It's beautiful," he answered, his voice hoarse with wonder. "The sky is dark, ah . . . a blanket that covers us all. But this blanket has holes that lets the radiance of the stars and the moon shine through. The snow covers the ground, softening it's edges, hiding it's faults in sheer elegance, and it reflects the light of the Moon and Stars, so that the garden is as bright as day and," Jules said slowly as he stopped walking and turned towards her, "I can see your perfect eyes."

"They're not perfect," Mary whispered, afraid to break the spell of words Jules had cast. "They don't let me see you."

"They have to be perfect," Jules said stepping closer to her so that their bodies pressed together and as he spoke, she felt the tingle of his breath on her face. "They're part of you, and I've never seen anyone more perfect than you."

He leaned in closer, so that she felt his words as much as heard them, "Do you think," he asked, voice low and trembling, "that I could steal a kiss?"

Their was a pause as she contemplated what he had asked her. A Kiss: she had only received them from her mother, and on some very rare occasions, her father. She could imagine nothing more pure, more simple, more innocent, and more affectionate. But steal, that was a term she thought could not apply to such an act. "No," she said, after some consideration. "But I'll gladly give you one."

She leaned forward and upward, knowing full well that Jules would have to position himself to accept the kiss wherever he wanted it. And she was a little surprised when his lips touched her, but as his lips lingered their, surprise turned to wonder, wonder to amazement, and amazement to unspeakable happiness. She had never, in her entire life, dreamed about something like this, it was a new world, full of wonderful feelings that didn't have names and could not be explained. The world she had known before was pale and cold and painful. This place was full of love and acceptance and joy. Even when Jules pulled away and his hands slid down her back, igniting every part of her into a fire that kept her warmer than his wool coat, she was still dazed.

And from the sound of his voice, he was too. "Mary, you are . . . I, ah . . . I love you so much."

She looked up, not daring to believe her ears, "Really?"

"More than I ever thought possible."

"Jules," she said, her voice was timid and humbled by the amazing kiss. "I, I don't know what to say." For a moment his heart stopped in utter terror. "Saying I love you seems so small," she continued, stuttering and pausing with hesitance every now and then. "When I was a little girl you saved my mind by telling me about a world beyond the orchard, and only days ago you saved my life from the men who killed my father, and just now you saved my heart from breaking. I was so frightened that you wouldn't love me, you are so much wiser than I am. You're an artist in Paris, your friends are English Nobility, you've traveled around the world. I didn't dare hope. But now that you've said that you love me, I . . . To say I love you wouldn't scratch the surface of how I feel."

Jules just nodded his head in wonder, "You have no idea how amazing you are." 

He leaned forward to kiss her again. That's when all hell broke loose.

A snake like arm, with the quickness of a cobra and the strength of a python seized Mary around the waist and flung her away like some disregarded pray. Before he could react to the abduction of his love, Jules was given a forceful gut punch that sent him to his knees and then a violent kick to the head rendered him helpless on the ground.

Mary, naturally, couldn't see any of what was going on. She stumbled, confused, trying to catch her balance despite the ridiculous dress and awkward shoes, trying to figure out what had pulled her away from Jules, trying to get back to him. Suddenly, she hit something big and hard, like a wall, and a screech escaped her lips. But when the wall put one arm around her waist and another over her mouth to muffle any future protest, Mary realized the kind of danger they were in. She tried to scream, to struggle, but she was small and weak and couldn't stop the wall from dragging her away from her beloved who was, by this time, lying unconscious in the snow, turning it red with his blood.

* * *

He threw Mary against a tree with all the force he could muster. She hit the solid trunk and crumpled onto the ground, trying to breath and trying to think. After the moment of pure shock wore off, Mary realized that she was free. She tried to find her feet, push herself off the ground in hopes of escaping who ever had abducted her. But no sooner had she untangle herself from the mess of silk and lace on her dress than the man lunged on her, grabbing her neck with one hand and pining her against the tree. Mary tried to breathe, but couldn't, she gasped and pawed against the man's hands but mercy was withheld from her. A darkness, deeper, colder, than anything her blind eyes had ever seen started creeping in on her, swallowing her from the inside out. But behind the darkness was an eerie glow, and in that glow was a reassuring voice she knew, instinctively, was that of the Angel Raphael. 

"Not now," the strong voice whispered. "Soon . . . but not now." 

Suddenly, she was able to breath again, she sucked in the sharp winter air in gasps and hardly noticed when the gentle, comforting voice faded only to be replaced with a harsh voice speaking in a slightly familiar accent. 

"Where are Jupiter's papers!" the man hissed.

"What?" Mary wheezed. She started to realize that the gentle voice had not taken away anything, the evil man was still holding her neck.

"Jupiter, your father, his papers, where are they?"

Mary was truly baffled. She had not spared a thought for the little black book, on who's leafs she had flown to Paris and found Jules, then to London, and finally to this perfect country manner, since she had left Secret Service office in London. It was Phileas Fogg's book now, not her father's and certainly not hers. "I don't have them," she said. Her voice was surprisingly firm, hoarse, but firm.

"Where are they hidden?" the man demanded.

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to me, you French whore," The man yelled.

"I'm telling the truth, I don't know!" Mary responded with equal intensity.

The man seemed to consider this for an impossibly long moment. "Then kidnaping you was fruitless," he said with a lusty voice that frightened Mary far more than all the violence that had been inflicted upon her just moments before. "I might as well get something out of it."

The pressure on her neck was suddenly lifted and Mary didn't hesitate to push herself away from the tree trunk and try and run away. But the cruel man was too quick, he grabbed her wrist, yanking her back towards him, and then, he grabbed the other wrist. She struggled, but she could not escape him, he forced both of her wrists into one of his hands. The more she struggled the tighter his grip became. 

"Don't hurt me, please don't hurt me," Mary gasped. Hot tears were rolling down her cheeks while the rest of her trembled with cold and fear.

The man didn't seem to hear her pleas. His free hand crept up the side of her body and started undoing the lacing on the back of her evening dress. His lips forced their way onto her mouth. Mary stopped struggling. The crude and cruel perversion of what Jules had given her earlier crushed her heart. It hurt her so much that she didn't want to breath anymore. She just wanted to stop, everything if it had to, so long as it stopped. She could do little more than close her eyes tight and sob silently.

His hand had torn through the lacing on her dress and the beautiful white gown fell into the snow. Whatever protection it had offered was gone. "You're a nice one," the man grunted crudely as he worked to remove her corset. "I knew it would be no waste."

Oh please, Raphael, just let me die, Mary thought. Please take me away from this place, please let me die.

When she heard the gunshot, she was sure the angel had answered her prayer. She waited for a sharp pain, and then the pleasant release of death. But it didn't come. Instead she felt the man who was holding her tense and then let out a low guttural croak, and then fall. His arm was wrapped around her waist and his hand had not let go of her, so she fell with him, still trembling from cold and terror, still sobbing from a pain too large for her to express.

"Mary," Phileas Fogg said urgently, as two warm hands touched her elbows and drew her off of the cold, snowy ground and into a warm, protective embrace. "Mary are you hurt?"

She wanted to tell him no, that she was fine. But she couldn't find enough breath between sobs to form words.

"Hush now," Fogg said, in a gentle tone. "You're alright, that bastard," he spit out the word, "is dead. You're safe now." She felt herself being wrapped in a warm blanket, lifted off the ground, and being carried back to the manor house. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that she could stand, indeed, she could walk. That he ought to find Jules and make sure he was alright, he had probably faired much worse than she had. And she wanted to remind him of Rebecca's dress, which should be somewhere on the ground: it was such a pretty dress at least Jules had said so. Mary would feel horrible if it were lost or ruined. But again, she could not seem to form words, she just buried her head in Fogg's shoulder and cried.

***

Cummings pulled the flask up to his lips and took a deep swig. He handed it back to Stokes, who took a swig himself. As a general rule, Cummings didn't drink. But the stress of waiting was just too much for him. 

He had come back to check in, after seeing Rebecca Fogg was safely on the train and irrevocably on her way to London. Stokes was sitting, waiting, at the telegraph office, for instruction. When they had discovered that Chervil was dead, shot in the garden, Cummings and Stokes had to not only had to regroup and hide, but they also had to decide what to do next. Winston's plan, to sidetrack Miss Fogg, incapacitate the boy, Jules Verne, and kidnap the girl had gone horribly awry and the cost had been his life.

Now they needed instruction. If anything were to happen, Chadsworth had ordered them to telegraph. He said that time was of the essence, that if the job was not done in the time of one train ride to London, approximately four hours, than all hope would be lost and the papers gone forever. 

"I've got your reply," the old telegraph operator said. They had dragged the old man out of bed, pounding on the door relentlessly; they had to reveal that they were working for the English government and this was a matter of national security before the old man would open the office on Christmas night. The green agents didn't realize how lucky they were that the small town's telegraph operator had decided not to go to the Fogg's grand Christmas party because his wife had a head cold, and they were too old for such wine and drink at such late hours.

"Well, let's have it," Cummings said, taking a demanding step forward and holding out his hand for the scrap of paper covered with no more than one phrase in wiry hand writing.

"It just says, 'Continue at all costs, stop.'" the old man said. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep."

"Continue at all costs, are you sure."

"No," the old man snapped. "Because it's the night of Christmas and I've had more than a nip of wine and it's too late for someone who's celebrated as many Christmases as I have. If you boys wanted me to be sure, you would have waited until the office opened in the morning."

"Now look here, Sir," Stokes said, rising from his seat on the hard wooden benches that lined the small telegraph office. "You don't seem to be understanding that we are on government business. This be a matter of national security!"

"What possible matters of national security could erupt in this little valley," the old man said, matching Stokes' spirit. "In the morning I'm calling the constable to see after you two. If this turns out to be a hoax I'll se that you'll be pinched where it hurts, the pocket book!"

"How dare you, Sir!" Stokes said, puffing out his chest in a threatening way.

"It's no hoax, I assure you," Cummings said, smoothly, talking over his comrade in a forceful but calming voice. "We thank you for your assistance. Come now, Stokes, we have work to do."

  
  


To be continued . . .


	8. Next to me

Chapter 8: Next to me 

It hurt to open his eyes, it hurt to breath, it hurt to move and it hurt to think. In short, it hurt. The Doctor, who was still in his dinner jacket, said there was nothing for it but rest, and whisky would do no harm. 

Passepartout, ever eager to serve, was handing Jules a glass before the semi-conscious writer was able to remember what, exactly, whisky was.

"Now, I don't suppose you remember who accosted you?" the thickheaded, thick accented town constable, who was also in a dinner jacket, demanded. "A description?"

"Pardon?" Jules asked, very confused. For some reason, the part of his brain that understood English was not working. Or rather it was working very slowly. Once he grasped the question, he tried to answer it, 'no, I didn't see the brute.' But the part of his brain that spoke English was doing little better than the part of his brain that understood it.

"What was that? Eh? Speak English man!" the constable demanded.

Jules hadn't realized that he wasn't.

"He said that he didn't see the man who attacked him," Passepartout translated. "Maybe it would be a good idea to question him later, yes? Maybe when he is not so confused?"

"Mary," Jules muttered, as the fog around his mind started to clear. "Ou est Mary?"

"Is he talking about that french girl?" the Constable asked.

"Passepartout, ou est Mary?"

"Ah, yes sir, he is," Passepartout the constable, before turning to Jules. "Je n'est sait pas."

"Non, non," Jules said, trying to force his bruised and beaten body to work as he pushed himself away from the soft chair he was sitting. "Ou est elle?"

"I don't think getting up just now would be prudent Monsieur Verne," the doctor said. "You need rest first and foremost."

"Did you hear that Jules?" Passepartout asked, "You should rest, tu reposerais."

"Non, non," Jules responded, using all his strength to force his way out of the chair. "Je ne reposera pas avant je la trouver, avant je sait que est Mary."

"She's right here," the sharp voice of Phileas Fogg cut through the room. "There's no need to worry, Jules, she's right here."

"Fogg," Jules said, somewhat confused by the sudden booming voice. He turned his head and saw the English gentleman carrying his beloved into the already crowded sitting room. "Mary."

"Oui, Monsure Jules, voila," He smiled his large, genuine, smile, "Mary, ici, Mary!"

"My God," Fogg said. "What are all these people doing in here? Get out, get out!"

"Sir, my men and I..." the constable started.

"Are leaving now," Fogg said forcefully.

"But sir, the investigation . . ."

"Would be better served if you followed the fresh footprints young Verne's assailant left in the snow, or perhaps you could examine the body of the rouge who attempted to accost Miss Sykes."

"Ah . . ."

"Now Constable!" 

The local lawman nodded and shuffled out to the room, grumbling. He was followed by half a dozen men who were trying to hide their excitement over seeing the fresh corpse of some nefarious villain.

This left only Passepartout, McKiver, Jules, the doctor and Phileas with Mary in his arms.

"Put her on the couch," the doctor said. 

"Mary?" Jules asked, leaning over in his chair so he could better see her face. He was too worried about her to notice that she was wearing nothing but her corset and bloomers. His eyes were on her face, which was pail as porcelain and the edges of her lips were blue. Her hair had fallen out of its elegant braid and clung, sopping wet, to her neck, and chest, which was bare without the elegant silk dress. The right side of her corset, and even the soft, pail flesh of her right shoulder, he neck and her cheek, was speckled with the deep crimson of blood. "Est elle blessé?"

"Blessé?" Fogg demanded, to worried and annoyed to translate for himself.

"Hurted," Passepartout explained. "Shot."

"No," the doctor said, glancing at Jules so the confused young man would know his question was being answered. "It seems like she's in shock, nothing too serious. The best thing for her would to get this damned corset off so she can breath properly. Then we can start worrying about getting her warm."

"Remercions les saints et les anges." 

"Verne, do you think you could do us the honor of speaking English?" Fogg snapped. "For God's sake, you are, after all, in England."

Jules stared at him for a moment, his mind slowly wrapping its way around the language Fogg was using.

"He's not speaking English, Master," Passepartout explained. "I think the words got knocked out of his head." 

"Knocked out of his head?"

"It's a form of shock," the doctor said, as he loosened Mary's corset and letting the young girl breath. "His mind is to stunned to speak anything but his mother tongue. After a rest he should be able to speak English again."

"Mary," Jules said again, as if his voice would somehow convince her to open her eyes.

"And what's wrong with her?" Fogg said, drawing his concerned eyes from the traumatized Frenchman to the traumatized Frenchwoman. 

"That's what I'd like to ask you, sir. You said you found her."

"I said nothing of the sort, but, yes, yes I did."

"Was she conscious at the time?"

"Yes she was."

"Did she say anything?" 

"No."

"What did she do?"

"Cry mostly."

"Hummm," the doctor said. He brushed her wet hair away to examine the huge bruise that wrapped around her neck. "I don't suppose you know what happened to her dress."

"I don't suppose I do," Fogg said, just a little tersely. "Does it matter?"

The doctor was now examining Mary's wrist, which was swollen and turning the same bluish-black as her neck. "You said a man was attacking her, when you found them?"

"He was, yes."

"Hummm."

"Doctor, that is less then helpful."

"It's just that," the doctor said as he stood up. "I don't think she's in shock because she was hurt, like Mister Verne was, if you understand me."

Phileas had a sort of blank look on his face, "Sir, you are a doctor, I expect that you would speak clearly."

"I think," the doctor said very softly, so that only Phileas could hear. "That her state is one of emotional distress more than physical. I believe that man was . . ."

"That man is dead," Phileas snapped angrily. "As will be any other man that tries to hurt either Miss Sykes or Mister Verne."

The Doctor looked at Fogg with something akin to dread in his eyes. "Sir, that is a very dire pledge."

"And a very earnest one." There was a frightening passion and intensity in the gentleman's voice. Even Jules, who didn't quite understand what his friend had said, knew that something very somber and important had just transpired. Had he been any less sure of his friend's good nature towards himself and Mary, he would have been very afraid. 

* * *

The Aurora floated smoothly across the inky sky. Phileas had said they were not running away with their tails tucked between their legs, they were relocating to a more strategically defendable position. London, the English gentleman had assured them, would be safer. There would be the police in London, people who watched the streets at night to protect those who could not protect themselves. There would be a smaller house, with more locks. There would be Rebecca near by too, that was worth at least a thousand well payed guards. 

But they weren't in London, not yet. They had a few hours of quiet as they floated far above anything dangerous an malicious. Passepartout was steering the ship, Phileas was planing stratagem for their protection and the Jules and Mary were held up in one of the Aurora's bedrooms. He spoke to her softly in french. His head still hurt, but he could have spoke English if Phileas or Rebecca were there, but it was just him and Mary. There was no need for anything more than was natural.

"And then," Jules said softly. "One day, a blind man stumbled into her garden. The daughter, who was playing among the flowers, saw him and, quite bravely for a young girl, went up to him. Even though he was dressed entirely in rags, with a long straggling hair and a beard to match, she addressed him like a gentleman.

"'Good morning sir,' she said, curtsying, although he could not see it. 'What are you doing in our garden?'

"The man smiled at her, 'Little lady,' he said, and she blushed, because she was not used to being called a lady. 'Little lady, I have wandered far and suffered much. All I ask for is a bite to eat, a sip to drink, and a small space to lie my head and rest, though I do not suppose you are in a position, my little lady' and again she blushed, 'to grant me that. Perhaps if you could find your mother or father, they would be able to find the charity in their heart to give me just what I need, for I want no more.'

"Now, of course, the girl didn't understand most of this soliloquy, but she did understand the part about finding her mother, 'Though I don't have a father to find, I do have a mother and she will gladly give you all you need and more. For she often says that her heart has suffered and it has taught her compassion.' So the little girl ran into the house and came back moments later with her mother, who was speechless when she saw the blind man kneeling on the ground in the middle of her garden, surrounded by radishes and onions.

"'Dear, kind lady,' the blind man said. 'Your daughter has said that you are full of compassion for those who suffer. I have suffered long from blindness, which leads to want. If there is some small task I could perform to erne a crust of bread or a sip of water, I would gladly do it, kind, kind lady.'

"Rapunzel looked down on the blind man and was instantly filled with compassion. Her heart felt like it would burst and tears began to well up in her eyes. Still, she managed to steady her voice and ask, 'Truly sir, blindness can not be the only thorn which causes you to suffer.'

"'Thorn indeed, kind lady, you do not know how wise is your speech,' the blind man said. 'For I was not always blind, but once I was a handsome, able-bodied prince and I loved the most beautiful woman in the world. She was kept in a tower by an evil witch, but still, our love was taller and thicker than the tower walls, and we were not kept apart. Alas, one day I was discovered, and the witch cast me out of the window and I fell onto a bush of thorns, which scared my eyes, and I have seen nought since. But, this causes me no sorrow. I wander, lost in grief, because I know that my love was forever lost that day, killed by the wicked which who imprisoned her. Though I be poorer than the poorest beggar, and my eyes darker than the eyes of the dead, all would be well with me if only I could hear my princess's voice again and know that all was well with her.'

"'Then surly your grief must be double,' Rapunzel said, as tears of joy mixed with the tears of sorrow that flowed down her cheeks. 'For you must be deaf as well. Can you not hear my voice, dear prince. For it is the voice of your princess, Rapunzel.' It was indeed the very same prince of the land with whom Rapunzel had fallen in love with, and also the father of her child. The prince rose to his feet, 'Oh, my dear Rapunzel,' he cried and they kissed."

Besides him, Jules felt Mary suddenly shudder. They were both wrapped in a thick quilt, sitting on the floor with their backs to the bed. As soon as she had regained consciousness she had begged not to be left alone, she didn't explain why. Nor did she say what the man whom Phileas had killed had wanted with her. Rape was a horrible word, and no one said it. But the very thought of it pressed all other motives out of Jules mind.

"I'm, I'm sorry," the young man said. "Did that upset you?"

"Finish the story," she said softly. He noticed that she didn't not answer his question. 

"Alright," Jules replied, with equal softness. "As they kissed, some of her tears fell into his eyes and he was healed. With his sight returned, he was able to find his way back to his castle, where his father welcomed him with open arms and great joy. The king also welcomed Rapunzel and her daughter into the royal family, and they all lived happily ever after."

"Happily ever after?"

"That's right," he turned his head slightly and kissed her left temple. 

She shuddered again.

"Mary, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," she insisted softly.

"You don't have to lie to me. It doesn't matter what happened, you can tell me."

She kept silent.

"Please," Jules begged. "I love you. Please tell me."

"I love you too Jules," she said, as tears started seeping through her eyes. "But I don't know how to tell you."

"I don't understand," Jules said, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

"I don't either," she admitted. "Something deep inside of me hurts. I don't have words for how or how much. I feel like if I told you it could stop, somehow. Like there's so much pain inside me I would burst. But I can't." Her breath started to come in gasps as fat tears streamed down her cheeks unhindered. 

"Mary," Jules said, wrapping his arms around her and rocking her slowly back and forth. "When you can, when you're ready, I'm here."

There was a long, sad silence for a while. The lovers listened to the cracking of the fire and watched the flames dance as the warmth wrapped itself around them. When Mary finally did speak her voice was hoarse and slightly trembling, as was her entire body, despite the warmth.

"Tonight, you asked if you could steal a kiss."

"I did."

"And I gave you one."

"I remember."

"And if I hadn't would you . . . would you have stolen it, really?"

"Mary, I don't see."

"Jules this is very important," she said, pushing herself away from him. "I need to know, if I didn't let you kiss me, would you have made me?"

"Mary," Jules stuttered. "No, no." He reached out to touch her but, again, she sank away from his hand. The young man could feel his throat constricting and tears rimming his eyes, he didn't know if they were from fear that her coldness would continue or sorrow for the pain she had been through or anger at the man who had hurt her. "What happened," he said, trying to force the words out, "was . . . wrong." 

"Papa always thought it would happen. He told the farm hand's he'd kill them if they looked at me. I didn't understand."

"He just wanted to protect you."

"Does this happen a lot?" Mary asked, her voice was becoming frantic. Jules wanted to reach out and comfort her but every time he tried she batted him away. "This must happen, for Papa to have been afraid. It must happen, but I never heard of it."

"It's not something people talk about," Jules tried to explain. "They're ashamed."

"I think I would die if I couldn't talk about it," she whimpered. "Am I being weak, that it hurts this much?"

Jules tried to find some way to comfort her, to assure her that only someone evil, someone cruel, would really steal a kiss: that it was just a phrase, and not a very good one at that. He wanted to tell her that she was not weak, that she was stronger than most anyone. But he, the playwright and novelist and poet, couldn't find words.

His silence obviously upset Mary, her delicate eyebrows were nit in anger. "Answer me Jules!" she demanded, her tears were hot and her voice trembled with fury, not weakness. "Something's wrong, something has to be for it to hurt this much! Is it me?" She asked earnestly, "Am I wrong?"

"No," Jules said, emphatically. "No, Mary, you're perfect. That man, he was . . . ." Words escaped him, but he didn't want Mary to think that was because he didn't care. He reached out, took Mary's hand, carefully avoiding the bruises on her wrists, and pulled her palms up to his cheeks so that she could feel how sincere he was. "I would never, ever, do to you, to anyone, what that man . . . he was . . . evil."

Feeling Jules's tears seemed to crack something in Mary. Another flood of tears overwhelmed her and she plummeted forward into his chest so that her cries were muffled in his shirt. 

"Mary, Mary," Jules said as comfortingly as he could as he pulled her close to him. He gently stroked her hair and, even though she didn't know it, cried along with her.

To Be Continued . . .

  
  


Hey faithful reader, I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out, and I'm afraid it will take even longer to get the next one out. Thanks for your patience and I hope you're able to stay tuned.


	9. Prayed for a Savior

Chapter 9: Prayed for a savior

"Well," Phileas said as he poured the brandy into three crystal decanters. "I must say, Mr. Cummings, Mr. Stokes, that I am a bit surprised by your position."

"How so?" Cummings asked nervously. He didn't like accepting hospitality from a man he intended to burgle. He knew that a certain amount of back-street-doings, as it were, had to be expected of undercover agents, but Fogg seemed such an upstanding person, and certainly kinder than he had to be.

"Well, to begin with, I certainly didn't expect you to come and tell me that my cousin had gotten off at the station all right."

"I only thought it was polite," Cummings said weekly, "She is after all, a lady. One can never be too protective."

"Really?" Fogg said, sounding amused, "I suppose that's true. I can scarce number the times I've dearly wanted to protect Rebecca, but been unable too."

"A right redhead, eh?" Stokes said, laughing. Cummings and Fogg stared at him, a bit put off by his common humor. The boxer seemed to notice his folly and quickly turned back to his tumbler.

Fogg cleared his throat, "What I was really referring to when I said I was surprised by your offer was that I was shocked that Chadsworth would spare men to protect Miss Sykes, he seemed rather annoyed at her when last we parted."

"Jupiter's book is quite important," Cummings said. "When I heard that it was threatened I felt we had a duty to help protect it."

"Did you?" Phileas asked, it seemed like he was almost suspicious of that claim. "And why is that?"

Cummings hesitated for a moment, "It is vital to national security that our enemies do not recover it."

"But what," Fogg asked, drawing every word out as long as he could, "if we never benefit from the book itself?" he proposed. "What if Chadsworth never consents to buying it, what then?"

"So long as our enemies don't have it," Cummings said, taking another sip of the brandy, hoping that the action would hide his lie. 

Phileas looked at the younger man with a wary eye, but after another sip of brandy seemed to wash that away. When he spoke again his voice was jovial and warm. "As glad as I am for the company, I can't help but think that this will be a somewhat weary journey," Phileas said. "There is no chance for whatever foreign agents tracked Mary down to assault her while in the Aurora, and we will be hovering over London for hours, at least until daybreak." 

Cummings felt another twinge of guilt, but soothed himself with the knowledge that the young girl would not be assaulted on the Aurora, she would simply be burgled. "Well," he said uncertainly. "Perhaps we could pass the time with a game of some sort."

"Did you have any particular game in mind?" Fogg asked with an eager tone in his voice. the young agent had no idea what sort of pandora's box he had just opened. 

"Well, I don't know," Cummings said. "I was rather thinking something along the lines of Chess, although I don't know if you have a board."

"I dare say that no person who would call themselves civilized would dare to be without a chess board. But that would leave our dear Mr. Stokes out. Perhaps we could persuade Passepartout to join us and start a game of bridge, or, perhaps, whist?"

"I'm not really one for those games of strategy and such," Stokes said quickly. "But I know that Mister Cummings here is quite good a chess. If you're any good sir, I would like to see a fine game played. You can learn a lot form watching two masters duke it out."

Phileas smiled in the way an English Lord often smiles to those he knows to be his inferiors, "Indeed you can, well then, Mister Cummings, are you up for a game?"

"Of course sir, bring out the board."

"I'll fetch it directly," Fogg said, with an almost childish grin. He quickly exited the room, leaving Stokes and Cummings to their own devious plots. 

"We don't have time for an elaborate plan," Cummings whispered quickly. "We'll begin play and then, after a bit yawn and say you'll go for a quick walk. I'll keep him busy in here, draw out the game as long as I can, and you, you find the papers.

"Right, sir," Stokes said. "Good plan."

Cummings nodded and tried to ignore the guilty lump in his throat. At that moment Fogg came back in was an obviously hand carved chess set in one hand and another decanter of brandy in the other. "It was the duce to find," he said excitedly. "I almost never get a chance to play. Rebecca has the attention span of a three year old, she thinks the game is dull. Passepartout can never remember which pieces make which moves and Verne takes so long thinking of every move and countermove that I have enough time to read "War and Peace" between turns." He looked up at Cummings and smiled, "I shall very much enjoy having a true opponent."

"As will I, I'm sure," Cummings said. He had not found a man of intelligence and daring who was interested in a game of chest for quite a while. He rued the fact that he would have to make this game a farce, something to keep Mr. Fogg distracted for as long as possible and not a true tet-a-tet with a worthy competitor. Cummings was beginning to think that, maybe, this job was not as fulfilling as he'd hoped it would be. That maybe the parts of him he liked the best would fade away in the secret service, because what he needed were the parts of him he liked least. But those thoughts would have to wait 'till London, 'till after they'd found the book and completed their mission.  
* * * 

The rook made a sort of dull thud as it hit the board. Cummings felt a thrill run up his spine and he sucked the breath in through his teeth, Phileas exhaled slowly through pursed lips and leaned back in his chair.

"Check," Cummings said, trying to hide his self satisfaction. He was too young to realize that such efforts were useless.

"Well played," Fogg said, examining the board and taking another sip of his brandy. "Well played indeed."

"I must admit that this game is the most rewarding thing I've done in quite some time," Cummings said, taking his own sip of brandy and not savoring it. "You are a magnificent player, Mr. Fogg, truly remarkable. Have you ever thought of entering a tournament?"

"No," Fogg said in a drawn out voice. "A well played game of chess is invigorating, but I'm afraid my tastes run towards games where fortune plays her hand." Fogg's eyes never left the board, and they always had a thin film over them; he was concentrating.

"Ah, cards and the like?" 

"Anything that you can bet on."

"I suppose a wager could be made on chess."

"No," Phileas said. "No, no. Chess is all skill, there is no chance involved. If you know you have superior skill and reasoning, than there is no chance, and without chance, no honorable wager."

"Do you believe you have superior skill and reasoning?" Cummings asked, just a little nervously.

"No, no," Fogg said quickly. "Ordinarily that is the case but, no, with you Mr. Cummings, I have no such assurances."

"I take that as a high complement."

"As it was meant, I can assure you," the older man said, smiling. 

Once again, Cummings felt a pang of guilt in his gut. He nodded, politely in acknowledgment of the compliment than fell into a sullen silence. He was able to brood for a few moments, before he realized that Fogg was examining him with cold grey eyes. He tried to smile, to shrug off the glare, but the son of Sir Boniface seemed to be made of ice. The game was up, there was nothing to do now, but confess. 

However, whatever Cummings would say was immediately forgotten. There was a large bang, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, and then a horrible, horrible silence. There was an uneasy dread filling the room, Cummings knew that, whatever that shot had been, it had to do with the book. And from the chilling look Fogg gave him, so did the older man.

"If," Fogg said, his very voice a threat, "that was one of yours, harming, in any way, one of mine, you shall find yourself falling. Falling and landing, very suddenly, and lethally I might add, into the English country side."

* * *

"Fogg," Jules yelled, his voice was thin, croaked with sorrow. That was understandable considering the sight that greeted the Englishman kindled both a debilitating grief and the need for revenge.

"My God," Phileas said in a whisper that no one but Cummings heard. All other words seemed somehow inappropriate.

"You have to come help me, Fogg," Jules said, tears were rolling down his eyes and he was clutching the young french girl's body to his chest. They were both covered in blood, by the look of things, hers. "She said to pray, you have to . . . have to help me pray."

Phileas felt as if his heart had suddenly turned into stone, it felt heavy and obstructed his breathing. Like a man in a trance he walked over to the pair sprawled on the floor and knelt down. He had to fight back tears as he saw what had happened, two very distinct bullets had torn through her torso, probably hitting her lungs. She was still breathing, but barely, and blood was flowing out of her mouth. Her eyes were focused on something else, something far away, something not of this earth. She was dying.

As Jules, his eyes closed tight, he voice choked, desperately rattled of prayers of petition to every saint he could name, Phileas watched the young girl's face. She didn't looked pained, she almost looked rapturous, and her lips were moving, ever so slightly. It took him a moment, but eventually he realized that she was praying as well: reciting a prayer that once upon a time, in the depths of his childhood, he had known.

"O Raphael, lead me towards those I am waiting for, those who are waiting for me," She whispered, so silently that no one but the angel could hear. "Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings, lead me by the hand towards those I am looking for. May all my movements, all their movements, be guided by your Light and transfigured by your Joy."

Her eyes fluttered and she gasped, but her lips continued to move in the silent petition. Without deciding to, Phileas found himself reciting the prayer along with her, his voice was hushed, not really meant to reach the Angel or comfort the dying, but rather to honor the girl that followed him with such devotion. "Angel Guide of Tobias, lay the request we now address to you at the feet of Him on whose unveiled Face you are privileged to gaze. Lonely and tired, crushed by the separations and sorrows of earth, we feel the need of calling to you and of pleading for the protection of your wings, so that we may not be as strangers in the Province of Joy, all ignorant of the concerns of our country."

He recited the last verse of the prayer alone, "Remember the weak, you who are strong--you whose home lies beyond the region of thunder, in a land that is always peaceful, always serene, and bright with the resplendent glory of God. Amen."

A tear rolled down the stoic man's cheek, and he checked his breath to hold back a sob, "Jules," he said softly, reaching out to the young man who was furiously sobbing his way through the Hail Mary, and putting his hand on the writers shoulder. Phileas was ignored.

"Jules," he said just a little more forcefully as he shook the young man, hoping to startle him out of his fanatic supplications. 

It worked, the younger man looked up at his friend with furious bloodshot eyes, "For God's sake, Fogg," he screamed, except that his voice was hoarse from crying so hard. "She's hurt, she said we have to pray. Help me pray."

"Jules," Phileas said, with no small amount of sorrow and compassion in his voice. "I believe that you need to start praying for her soul."

Those words, though spoken with nothing but heartfelt love, stabbed the young man as painfully as any knife could have, "No," he croaked, tears streaming out of his eyes. "God, no."

"Her suffering is over, Jules," Phileas said. He could feel the tears start to well up in his eyes as well, but he set himself against crying, he was stronger than that; he didn't cry. 

As Jules collapsed into his grief on the floor, cradling the body of his beloved, Phileas pulled himself up and, taking a deep breath, turned himself around fully expecting to find an empty room. Instead, he found Cummings and Stokes watching the very intimate mourning, both looking horrified and ashamed.

"Gentlemen," Fogg spit out. The word seemed to developed a new meaning as he said it, it was almost a threat. "If you would be so kind as to retire with me into the kitchen I believe we have some matters to discuss regarding Jupiter's papers."

"Fogg, I . . ." Cummings stuttered, not willing to look the older man in the eye.

"This is important," Phileas spit out venomously. "This cannot wait."

Cummings nodded, and was willingly led to the kitchen, as was Stokes. When they reached the door to the little room they found it locked, with Passepartout inside, banging and screaming for someone to let him out.

"Oh, Master," Passepartout gasped as the door was unlocked and opened. "I was standing in the kitchen making tea and then there must have been a blustering of wind because the door, she closed, and then the lock went click and I was thinking I'd never be let out, which would not be so bad for me, sir, because I was having all the food, but it being very bad for you sir . . ." He didn't seem to notice the graveness of the company around him as he babbled on. Part of Phileas didn't want to tell him what had just transpired, the other part of him couldn't let the manservant be jovial and whimsical at a time like this.

"Passepartout," Fogg said, more harshly then he meant to. "Something dire has happened."

Finally, the Frenchman seemed to catch on to the tone of the men around him, "Dire, master?"

"It seems," Fogg continued with unbearable formality, which he used to keep him from breaking down into tears. "That Mary was shot, and killed."

"Shoted!" Passepartout gasped, horrified, "Shoted, the sweet, innocent, lovely girl . . ."

"Ple . . Ple . . .Please Pas . . .Paspart . . .tout," Phileas stuttered, before taking a deep breath. His emotions were too close, too powerful. He had to push them down and away, to disconnect. "Go comfort Jules. Watch over him, make sure he wants for nothing."

"I'm sure he'll be wanting Miss Mary," the manservant said with a whimper.

"Go!" Phileas yelled, as he pointed towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms and the scene of one of the greatest tragedies Fogg had ever experienced. 

"Yes, master," Passepartout said sheepishly, before turning and heading up to see what could be done for Jules. Which left Phileas alone with the two agents. 

"When Chadsworth refused to the buy the book fairly I assumed he was come to his senses, not leave them completely," Phileas said angerly, before stepping aside so that the door to the kitchen was unobstructed. "If you would be so kind," Phileas said with perfect formality as he ushered the men into the small room. 

Stokes glanced at Cummings, presumably for instructions. Cummings did not react, instead he look straight ahead, at Fogg, with the sort of expression that an honorable but guilty man has before his execution. Hot rage pulsed through Phileas's veins, and he was not beyond crude vengeance. But something about the way Cummings stood, with a trembling jaw and set eyes, reminded Phileas of himself twenty years ago. 

"In my day rape and murder were not acceptable tools for members of Her Majesty's secret service," He said, standing in front of the door so the two men understood they were trapped in the small, claustrophobia inducing room. "But I suppose the rules change with who's playing. And some people will do anything to get what they conceive to be the slightest advantage. And this," Phileas said, pulling the small black book out of his breast pocket, "would give any man in our line of work an advantage, I should know, I've read it."

"That's Jupiter's book then?" Stokes asked before Cummings was able to hush him with a gesture.

"It is indeed, and it's pursuit has so far killed at least three people, one of them an innocent."

"It' was an accident Mr. Fogg," Stokes tried to explain desperately, "It happened so quick and he was yellin' and she was cryin' and neither of them were answering questions."

"Be quite, Stokes," Cummings said forcefully. "Fogg is right, an innocent girl died, there are no excuses."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Mr. Cummings," Fogg said. "Because I know you'll understand that here's where it ends." With that, Fogg threw the book into the little franklin stove Passepartout always kept hot in case Fogg would suddenly, unexplainably demand tea or coffee. 

"Damn it man, what are you doing!" Stokes yelled, not quite foolish enough to reach into the licking flames that surrounded, and had already begun to consume, the little black book. 

"Shut up Stokes!" Cummings yelled, "Fogg is right, it ends, it has to end."

"Then I trust that I need not chain you for the remainder of our trip to London?"

"No sir," Cummings said, "We submit ourselves entirely to your authority."

"Well then," Fogg said, his throat was beginning to swell, watching that little black book incinerate reminded him of the waist and futility of life. He needed a drink. "I'm going to lock you in Passepartout's lab. If you would be so kind as to not touch anything . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence, he needed a drink desperately.

The End

  
  


Dear faithful readers, I know you're all very upset, you've waited, and waited, and waited . . . and this is what you've got. I'll try to give you a little bit more closure with an epilog, and I'll explain some of the sources for the story with an appendix. I'm not at all convinced anyone will want to read these things, but feel that they need to be there. So thanks for your tenacity and patience.


End file.
